Deadlines and other horrible crap.

Before the drama of my divorce began, I contemplated suicide every day. It's a good thing that the will to live is so hard-wired in us, or I'd be long dead. Seriously (I actually came close a couple of times to doing it). This wiring does not, however, stop me from seriously considering suicide every day. EVERY day. Especially on days when things go alright for me. I don't know why that is, exactly. I suspect it's because I've been down for long enough that when I'm up a bit, I have to equalize and so I dip even lower. My base-line is that low these days. Also, I don't trust joy. I can enjoy it, I can savor it for a while, but I don't trust it. Whenever I'm moderately happy, I always feel like that's the moment when everything will turn to shit. Whether it does or not is beside the point; when I'm really down, everything "feels" like shit (whether it is or not) and it's felt that way long enough that, even though I hate it, that's the emotional state that feels normal to me. That's the emotional state I can rely upon. This is a terrible state of affairs.

So, my deadline. I seriously considered killing myself on my 39th birthday, but I didn't because I was SO depressed that I couldn't bring myself to do it. I did, however, start planning (almost unconsciously) to off myself on my 40th birthday (my "deadline"). It seems like a good time to do it. Not because it's the beginning of "over the hill" or something, but because it's such a tidy number! 40. Nice, even number of years. I have no kids, no prospects of having kids; only a partial education (nobody cares how smart you are if you don't have written proof that you can complete a course of study [which makes sense in its way]), a history of low-end jobs... I'm not in demand, I benefit nobody. Oh, sure, I could go to community college (and I do think about doing that, but I never move on it) and work my way through a degree and finally have a B.A. in something when I'm 44 or 45, but to what end? If you think there's no agism in the job market, then you don't know a fucking thing. Especially in this dog-shit economy. I'm amazed that I have the job I have because I'm older than pretty much everybody (there's one exception) by at least 10 years. Anyway, what I'm getting at is that I don't have any major responsibilities to stick around for.

Am I bitching? I'm bitching. I'm also having a pity party, take out your tiny violins! Boo hoo!

Anyway, my big point is that I feel like the world wouldn't even notice if I take myself out of it. Oh, sure, my family and the barest handful of friends I have would be upset for a while, but I wouldn't be missed for long. Besides all of that maudlin dreck, it just seems like a responsible thing to do. I'm not unique or special (nobody is, ultimately), I've more or less wasted the potential I was born with. It would create a job opening, it would make room for somebody else in the world. What have I brought to the world of humans? I can't think of anything, it all cancels itself out. For every "positive" thing I think of, I can think of at least two negative things. A net loss. Give somebody else a shot at making something worthwhile in their life.

I've put a lot of thought into how I would do it, too. I want to kill myself responsibly! I'm still mulling the options that would allow me to leave as many harvestable organs as possible. Drowning (in December) seems the best way in those terms; it would be like putting myself on ice, preserving the organs until my body is fished out of whatever body of water I did it in. That would be a worthy contribution: my liver and kidneys are probably pristine (as a non-drinker), my lungs are in good shape (non-smoker), heart feels like it's doing okay; my eyes aren't perfect, so maybe they wouldn't want those. It's good that they can't do anything with brains (yet), 'cos mine is shot. Really, that's the lynch-pin to this whole existential dilemma: my stupid brain. Oh, and there are several gold crowns in my mouth, that might be worth something.

By now some of you (you, the three [maybe] people who have read this awful blog) are probably thinking, "he should really talk to somebody about this". Yes, I should. It's something I'm looking into, but with no health benefits and limited public resources, it's not so easy as just going to talk to somebody. I was thinking of launching into a diatribe about how mental health services are so undervalued, but other people have done it much better; read about it elsewhere. Anyway, I want to talk about it (why do you think I wrote this horrible blog?), but the most insidious thing about depression is that you come to think of your problems as being unworthy of anybody's time. Why would I bother apparently happy, "normal" people with my problems? I'm not important enough to warrant anybody's consideration. This is another big problem for me, I assume that I'm worthless and beneath anybody's concern (even my own).

A lot of this stuff is given strength by lingering problems from my divorce. Jen was such a cunt to me, was so cold and inconsiderate (she's a narcissist, after all); there's still so much hurt and anger left over from the whole fiasco. Yes, I hear you, I'm trying to find a way to talk to somebody about it. All of the things that happened have been turned inward. That's the craziest thing of all: there's still a part of me that's totally in love with her (at least with the memory of her). That makes it particularly difficult when it comes to beating up on myself. When I'm in that crazy place, it's CLEARLY my fault that things went the way they did, I DESERVE to be miserable now. But when I'm swinging the other direction, it appears to have been ALL Jen's fault (personality disorder or not). There's a middle ground, to be sure, but I'm not certain of where it is.

So much shit to work on...

I wish I had a tidy end to this terrible post. I've got a few months before my 40th birthday, I'm trying to figure this stuff out (or at least give it room) and get some perspective on it.