I don’t write much anymore. Even before my boyfriend died, before his liver failure, before he and I even dated, I drafted blog posts or poems or short story ideas less and less. I don’t know if it was just life itself and the fucking exhausting act of existing, or if it was a multitude of mounting mental illnesses that caught up with me and wiped out any potential shred of creativity I had left. But it vanished. My passion for creating vanished. Life became just…life. Waking up to survive another day, only to go to sleep wishing it were possible to someday live and not just exist.
My demise has been slow. Over many years, the moments of inspiration became fleeting, more infrequent. After my boyfriend died, most of whatever is within me that’s not just bones and organs went with him, I’m pretty sure. I was disappearing long before he and I dated. But his death meant that life just didn’t seem worthwhile to me anymore. My transformation from a human being into a shell posing as a human being was complete.
I exist now, but that is all I do. Each day waking to survive the day, barely functional. Without caring. Without any idea of what it’s like to truly live and feel passion in ordinary daily occurrences. Existing here, on Planet Earth, when I’m suddenly hyperaware, at times obsessed, with death and mortality and fragility and our temporaneous act of existence. Each day I think, “How am I supposed to care about any of this worthless shit when none of this matters? In the grand scheme of things, who gives a shit?”
As a high schooler the idea of life and society and humanity confused me and scared the shit out of me. Overwhelmed me. “The big picture” was horrifying. I didn’t understand why we were all wasting our time within this framework we created just to distract ourselves. To keep us all in line and in order. Why are we conforming to society’s inane rules when we are all going to die? After we die it will no longer matter if we had a Master’s degree in a respectable field with which we had a successful career while finding a mate and producing the correct amount of children deemed acceptable according to the society we lived in. And even more significant–how fucked is it that millions of us are spending our entire consciousness miserable? And doing so either to appease society’s norms or because existence according to the framework humanity has created is just plain shit?
After my boyfriend died, my opinion was solidified that life sucks. I say it’s an opinion because there are thousands of humans existing who were blessed with privilege, or who don’t suffer debilitating mental illnesses, or who haven’t yet experienced loss, and these people, even though I’m sure they have off days, would say that life is pretty fucking great…for them. But those are the lucky ones. I am of the opinion now that life is not that way. Life has its moments. But life, existence, is something none of us asked for. And we’re all required to play by society’s rules. Even if we’re as nonconforming as it gets, there is no escaping the system we were born into. There’s no way to escape toxic capitalism, for example, because it encompasses all aspects of our lives.
I’m writing this, for one, because I’m forcing myself to write. Like I stated in the first few words of this blog post, I don’t write anymore. I feel as if I’ve become mentally lazy. And I still may never know if it’s because of my mental illnesses, because my life sucks, or because this is what happens to your brain when you are just sick of existing at all. But I’m forcing myself to write because it’s the only fucking thing I’ve ever wanted to do with this little existence of mine. I’ve been spending day after day just existing, pining for the day when I’ll feel inspired and the creativity will return. But I’ve realized that that most likely won’t happen. I’m too exhausted, too depressed, too anxious, and my brain just doesn’t function like that anymore. There is no inspiration. There is no passion. Now I have to pretend, for myself, that I can still string sentences together in the hopes of one day making something of my existence, or giving my existence some sort of meaning that can get me through however many years I have left of consciousness. For now, I’m here. Existing. Hating every fucking second of it and wishing it wasn’t so, but still doing it nonetheless. Mostly for Patrick. I’m still here. You’re welcome.