I can’t tell whether being devoid of emotion is simply muffled despair or a better condition than explicit suffering. Reminding myself that emotions in and of themselves don’t tell the whole story, I can still notice how the rest of my life is affected. Times like these allow me to fully understand what others mean when they say that anything, even pain, is better than sheer emptiness, that pain at least makes them feel alive; it’s hard to believe when experiencing explicit suffering.
All the motivation, the slightest glimpse of “passion” that takes weeks, perhaps months to build up, takes days to completely erase. All of the energy spent getting that tiny foothold is thrown out; I can never build upon past successes — every single day is a brand new battle with no end in sight.
I can only describe the sensation as similar to when one grasps about for something to hold on to while splashing about in the water. In the moment of panic, absolutely anything to grasp on will do, and this particular moment, though short, puts one through the greatest desperation; all anchors in one’s life don’t simply topple like dominoes, they fall apart altogether with such speed that it is baffling to think that just a short time ago they constituted one’s reason to live. Instead of fondness, one looks back at them repulsed by their sheer triviality.
Things seem altogether more horrific when a more objective perspective is reached—that is, the recognition that a moment of desperation is hardly a good time to discover truth and meaning—because most or all values can be traced back to falsehood and triviality, but by that point apathy may very well have set in. The condition of apathy sufficiently alleviates this feeling of horror at the cost of doing the very same thing to feelings of happiness. There would be little to complain about if it were not for the fact that a truly neutral equilibrium is extremely rare; more often than not, the state of apathy leaves one in a somewhat functional state of misery.
Misery arises from the fact that although one doesn’t exactly wish to end their life, they have been disarmed of the basic faculties to truly live. They are, in a sense, the living dead. If stagnation is demoralizing, regression is unspeakable.
All of my “achievements” seem petty and revolting when I look back at them years later. They act as constant reminders of the fact that my life has always been a “one step forward, two steps back” endeavor; of the fact that I have failed to stay true to myself; of the fact that I’m still, years later, going absolutely nowhere. Happiness is held in check by the despair that accompanies it and, in time, renders it irrelevant. Against a background of darkness it is a mere hint of dust.
I feel like a fraud in all aspects of my life. It can be very difficult to accept any sort of kindness from anyone because I almost always feel like it’s based on deceit — if only they knew, they’d despise me. Withdrawing myself is the first instinct I have in this kind of a situation, but I’ve come to realize over time that it does nothing beneficial for me.
Although I’ve grown to consider self-loathing, depression, and despair — all in isolation — to be quite normal, I know deep down that things can be better than this. It’s funny how I can intuitively tell that things can be better even when I’ve had no indication of that from experience; I only hope this intuition isn’t here merely to taunt me.
I can’t learn from failure anymore. I’ve managed to build up such a strong shell against feelings of despair that disappointment with myself is no longer a motivating factor in the sense that it used to be or typically is for others. I am in a daze; failure does not move me toward success and success does not reward me with satisfaction: all is equally pointless in the end.
I wish things could be different but I no longer know where to start. It has been too long and failure is now all I know.
None of it is really that hard; before I could manage to get through material with clear intellect, but now my mind is sluggish and clouded; where my intellect fails me, sheer diligence can persevere, but every slight effort is a brand new battle — it doesn’t get better with repetition.
Again, none of it is really that hard — it is trivial in comparison to the existential circumstances we find ourselves in. I peered into the well and have since remained transfixed. Perhaps such a fundamental realization is not one which can simply be compartmentalized and stored away, unable to harm all other aspects of one’s life.
I have no idea where I’m going. This is more scary than it is exciting because I have no footholds in life. It’s easy to discount such a thing as a minor worry when one has support from a vast structure of friends and family; I have very little, perhaps nothing.
Everything is up in the air, uncertain, and on the account of the history of my life, this uncertainty has a negative connotation. I can’t seriously consider the idea that the past truly doesn’t matter, that I can start over with a clean slate — there is damage done and I have to try and compensate for it, but I can’t simply assume future success.