I am fearful of death but enamored with it at the same time. My lust towards my own eventual demise is heightened, of course, during the throes of Bipolar depression, but I find that I am constantly dipping my toes into the grave just to get a taste of the nonexistence that will eventually be mine. I do not wish to grow old; I have enough problems accepting the toll that hard living and time have on me as it is. Every aggravation of a past back injury, every cough brought on by years of cigarette smoking, and every hair that turns gray are reminders that my best years are behind me. Who would want to see themselves decay? Why do we champion longevity at all costs? I don’t want it.
The prime directive in the moment is to gain as much enjoyment as I can until that day in which I decide that no further gains can be had. I hesitate to call this ‘hedonism’ as my source of “enjoyment” is vastly different than the majority whom are true hedonists. My shallow affect denies me most of the pleasure that others have in this life. My need for stimulation and proneness to boredom ensure that what little euphoria I do taste cannot last any longer than the breath that hangs at the edge of our mouths. My Borderline facets require the company of others to be “happy,” and the pleasure of solitude is denied to me. When a person in my shoes considers all that is held back by life, the embrace of oblivion seems more desirable by the day. This isn’t necessarily depression, but rather a cold nihilism that is birthed from truth.
The oblong box has an expiration date. There is a time in which the succor life brings is actually distress in disguise. There is a point wherein the best experiences of life have long passed and the tired journey of continuing to live is less comforting than the cold touch of decay. Having stabilized over the past few weeks, I can say that the expiration date for me resides somewhere in the future. How distant? I do not know. All I do know is that I hope that I never have the desire to remain alive past that time in which I envy the dead more than the living. Purpose, satisfaction, legacy … these are things that I will never acquire. I pray not for the afterlife, but rather forgetfulness. The static status quo is damning, why would I want anything but oblivion?