[cw: suicidal thoughts] I guess this does not come as a surprise to anyone – I think I have an inherent dislike for my self. No one who inherently likes them selves would keep having thoughts of whether their lives are meaningful, or if their lives are worthwhile. Them simply being alive should be enough.
A typical person being in this world cannot help but be affected by this world and in turn, affects the world. Their mere presence changes the world through their interactions. That to me, is the meaning of one’s life. The universe can one day implode, but nothing changes the fact that we were once there. We participated, even if it is a simulation.
This is where I stand philosophically at least intellectually, at this point in my life. But personally and psychologically I keep wondering whether my life is worthwhile. I don’t think the world is better or worse with or without me. I struggle to participate, because everything just seems so heavy and meaningless.
I just don’t have a good relationship with my self, life and this world. On a meta level I think this could be a good and fruitful thing. This void or conflict has pushed me to examine that space instead of living life like a drone on auto-pilot. There are a lot of things that most people take for granted that don’t come easy to me. But it feels difficult: living like I am fundamentally incompatible with life.
I wonder if a lot of how I feel stems from being the odd one out. Will I feel this desolation if I am surrounded by a community of people like me? I once believed I had found my tribe when I lived in SF for a while, only to drift apart from that spectrum of weirdness.
I think mentally I have a very strong drive to be independent in my thoughts and actions, but emotionally I wish to belong. That is the main difference between people who are unapologetic about their unique selves and me. I feel perpetually apologetic for being me.
Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking of myself as fully abled like the rest of the world, only to realise again and again no matter how many kilometres I can run, how many streaks I can accomplish, how much weight I can lift, I am still chronically ill. I have a lot less migraines than before, but they pop up when I am not careful. I still have to be hyper-vigilant about my health, and I tend to feel ill a lot more often than the average person. But I am so used to feeling unwell that it feels so normal, so I fall into the trap of thinking I am normal. Then I get irrationally upset when my normal sense of unwellness becomes sickeningly unwell.
Like many other people who minimise illness, I too minimise it for myself. If I truly believe I am ill, I would have way more compassion for myself. I would understand that I was incapable of doing all the things I thought I should do. But no, I feel contempt when I am unable to do anything. Memories of being labelled as lazy comes flooding back into me. I start to detest myself for my ongoing uselessness. There is an overwhelming sadness about my existence. Sometimes the pain feels unbearable. And this is when I wish for it to end.
I don’t have a lot of capacity for normal living. I am very easily overwhelmed. People are not very kind to this sort of fragility, because we prize “resilience”. It was worse when I was younger, and there was so much self-hatred and shame accumulated because I could not hustle. One day I just decided to finally acknowledge that I am fragile. I heaved a sigh of relief. I can finally stop pretending and trying to be who I am clearly not. We can’t keep asking the fish to climb a tree.
I dwell on things I cannot do – it grates on me slowly, draining the life out of me. But I don’t give myself credit for the things I can do. I just cannot think of and see my self clearly, like how I would objectively and logically evaluate someone else.
I don’t really know how to surface out of this, or if I even could, if this is something I have to learn to work with in order to have a better relationship with my own life. I am already in my 40s, if I lived in another era I would probably be dead by now. It seems unlikely that I can ever reprogram myself to think of myself differently. All I can do is to articulate these in ways I know how, like writing this now. Maybe just the act of processing is enough.