It has been a constant part of my life since early childhood, the question of life and death. What it feels like, what would be the perspective of those left behind. But lately the thoughts have been constant. The death of a family pet hit home deep down when I was working a late-night shift. It was a ten-second relapse and some sort of vision of the future. Afraid, yes—I was afraid, and for days it was all I could think about. My head ached each time, loss of sleep and lack of appetite.
Then came the problems. They piled up until it came crashing down. Taking one's own life was something I could have thought of but couldn't do. I wished I could, but I couldn't. There was just something fundamentally wrong about it. Taking one's own life. I wish I could, but I couldn't. It has been a constant repeat, with no help from other people. I mean, I tried, but they just don't see it.
An existential OCD, how meaningless life was. At least for my lens it was. You are born to live for less than a century and eventually die. I mean, why do we struggle to prolong it? What is so fun about life? You live, the next thing you know you are dead. Yet we continue to struggle.
Here I am at the edge of my comfort zone, hoping something would just hit me and end it all. I could still function like normal, laugh a little, and then the thought of it. That every time I was happy, there was a bigger exchange of sadness and grief as its payment.
An equivalent exchange. So I feel miserable, unable to smile, unable to find comfort in the living.
Dumping myself with dopamine, exhausting my ears with constant noise so that I won't feel alone.
Life, yes, life has been tough.