thqoeraway

And there in lies a bit of a problem. I could probably be 'cured', if I had any particular desire to be cured. Or perhaps put more into programmer terms; this is a feature, not a bug.

I've had decades to look inward and ponder why it is that I am what I am. And often the line of questioning leads down to one particular core reason; that I do not wish to be not suicidal. I've looked at every friend I've severed from my life, every decision, every opportunity I turned away from, every life milestone I will never experience. No first kiss, no first date, no birthdays parties or Christmas get togethers. There will be nothing to reminisce about at the end of my life, no taste of nostalgia at a life well spent.

And yet every time I ask myself if I regret any of it... I would have to say no, I don't. And if I could go back and do it all over again with what I know now, I wouldn't change anything. Had I killed myself then I think it would have left a terrible pain behind. As is, when I do kill myself, it will be as quiet as leaf falling from a tree.

But to entertain you. I have done international travel and volunteer work. I still do from time to time. But there's no enlightenment in doing so, just busy work for myself.

I'm very good at being completely and utterly predictable in every respect that people will see, even if all they know of me is a false name and a false persona. And thus, having met all expectations, be I become someone less interesting then the task at hand.

I realize this is likely what you didn't wish to hear but I do not know what else can be said. I am who am I am.

I think it's a terribly fragile thing to tie one's life to.

Say I were to give you cup of water, made of the most fragile glass to ever exist, and asked you to hold it. I'd imagine that it would be fine for a few minutes or even a few hours.

Does that stay the same if I asked you to hold it for days? Or months or years? Forcing you to always have to look tie a hand to it, always having to pause every other aspect of your life so that this glass doesn't shatter from setting it down just the wrong way, or going outside in the wrong temperature? And you do so, but only because of the guilt you know you would feel if the glass did break.

With a parent and child, such a relationship is inherent. To a child, mother and father are their world, their protector, their provider, their everything until they are able to fly on their own.

But what of peers? Do you think such is the basis of a healthy relationship?

Were it me to be the one that would shoulder another's burden as such... I think there would be a small seed of resent that would take root in my heart. One would grow like a terrible weed choking every other plant until nothing else remained. I'm scarcely able to tend to own wellbeing, there is barely a single bread crumb to spare for another.

This is been there I think since childhood. And I am far closer to being middle aged now then I am to days of my adolescence.

If this is a phase, it is one with incredible staying power.

I think you made a slightly poor choice of words; I am waiting. I've done nothing but wait in a waiting place. Waiting in a chair, waiting for a sign. Waiting and wondering when it will be my time.

Pitiable attempt at bad poetry aside, it is not as if my mother is bedridden with illness. Barring the unforeseen, another decade at minimum I think is reasonable. Who knows after that.

Until then I am waiting. And doing nothing else but waiting.

Honestly, it was what was within arms reach that I knew would work. It wasn't as if there were an elaborate master plan to execute. If there were, do you believe I'd be here talking about it?

Though... I won't deny the possibility that spite may have been involved as well.

Some sort of fight I think, the details of which have long vanished into irrelevancy. Though it was not as if it were a light bulb that was switched off. It was a long road to that junction in my life.

Do you remember your first words that you spoke or the first steps you took as a toddler? Or has speech and stride been just a part of your life since a time beyond your first memories?

To me, the idea of ending my own life has always been there, as constant as the sun rising in the east. There may have been a time when it wasn't so, but I cannot find it anymore. Because of this were were half hearted attempts both before and after; a sliced wrist here, a sloppy noose there. The one was the critical one. The one who's cause was nothing more then a piece of straw that broke the camel's back. But it broke nonetheless.

The rest as they say, is history.

There's not much of a story to tell that's not been told a billion times over. I wake, go to work, go home, browse, go to bed, repeat. The stress of life is there, tense moments where my teeth grind loud enough to hear. But is that so different then anyone else going through life?

That said I don't know if you and I are two sides of a coin. You ask the question on whether there is meaning in life, and answer that there is none. I look at the question, and find myself unbothered in any case.

How unfair would that be to that someone? Having to bear the burden of being the sole reason for another to live?

I spent years deliberately and intentionally slowly distancing myself from every friend, every acquaintance, until my existence was nothing more then a fading echo of a memory to everyone that would mourn not just a death of a human being, but the my death in particular. I've crossed paths with many of them in recent years, and to them my face is that of a stranger's.

So to answer your question. No. Not without some sort of actual desire to live from myself.

More then a decade I made the decision to kill myself. Came within a few millimeters from succeeding. My mother caught me in the backyard wearing a sweater and jeans drenched in gasoline with a lighter in my hand. My mother was never really athletic or decisive, but she moved as faster then I'd have ever seen her in my life. Hugged me hard and refused to let go no matter how hard I struggled. Took me longer to realize why she was doing that. For me to burn, I'd have to burn her as well... and she knew damned well I could never do that.

The only reason I'm here is for her sake, but only just. After she is gone that there's little else that compels me to stay.

It's not as if I'm unafraid of dying. It frightens me just as much as it does you. But even now don't find living to be more appealing, for reasons I cannot remember anymore. I'm just here, a clock in the shape of a person that's waiting to die.