The Inevitable
I haven't been feeling well lately. Actually, I haven't been feeling well for the past few years, but over the course of the past several months, my decline has accelerated. I sense the inevitable is on the way.
Everyone remarks, "You've been saying that for the past few years, now, and you're still here." But let's be honest: we all know it can't go on for another decade. Or perhaps even for a couple more years.
While it's true I might be able to eke out another year or two if I went on a regimen of new meds, first, they're expensive, and second, to be perfectly honest, I'm not enjoying life any more. I really hope the inevitable comes sooner rather than later.
My friends bristle when I talk this way, and I understand why. I'm not going to miss them when I'm gone, but they'll sure miss me, and I deeply regret the pain of my passing will cause them.
But it's time I let nature take its course. There's nothing left I want to do. Oh, I could perhaps invent some more goals to satisfy, but that would be nothing but "busy work." I'm done with all of that.
Lately I've been going down various memory lanes, enjoying the sensation of recalling the "good times." But, realizing they're now gone, never again to be experienced anew, tinges them with a bittersweet aftertaste.
It's a painful paradox: cherished memories become unpleasant experiences.
Worse, I have few-to-none opportunities to enjoy new things. I was forced to leave a sanctuary where I could have had a perpetual supply of new joys until my last days. Now I'm stuck in an oversize coffin. I hate this place. But, it was a matter of survival. In hindsight, I should have ended my life before moving.
Listening to music has become more difficult, as certain works will reduce me to a sobbing mess. And it's not merely "sad" tunes, or certain songs from my youth; it can be bravura performances of uplifting classical music; I still break down. I've always been in awe of the power music has over people such as myself. Indeed, some music has become emotionally "dangerous."
That I've become hyperemotional doesn't help matters. Not long ago, I watched the last episode in the last season of my favorite television program, and I wept through most of it. Sorry, that just doesn't seem right. It's probably due to my lifelong chronic depression, which will likely only be getting worse. But, what would be the point in pursuing therapy now?
Curiously, that favorite program of mine has offered up some intriguing observations on death. In one episode, one of our heroes is sacrificing himself to prevent the spread of a deadly contagion. As he's preparing a nuclear rector to overload, he broadcasts a warning to other vessels to move away, and toward the end of his message, he reflects on the situation: "I always thought I'd have something clever to say at this moment... You know, something... pithy, even a little ironic, but... memorable..." The bittersweet irony is that, in expressing his inability to say something memorable, he does exactly that. And, to add to the pathos, unbeknownst to him, a woman with whom he'd been developing a relationship was watching his transmission.
In a later episode, a minister is discussing the strong possibility of their imminent death with another of our heroes, lamenting her not being able to tie up loose ends. Our hero replies, "Everyone leaves unfinished business. That's what dying is." This is possibly my all-time favorite quote of the series—it was my email signature line for quite a while.
To be sure, I'm not the slightest bit afraid of dying. In fact, I look forward to it. What I am deathly fearful of, however, is experiencing regret while I'm still alive. For me, it is the most agonizing and damaging of all emotions—worse, even, than the death of a loved one. It sucks me into an emotional black hole from which I must struggle to escape, a process than can take weeks. And so I fight to avoid going there by distracting myself with emotionally engaging activities, such as listing to "dangerous" music.
Even writing this essay has been quite challenging because I've been forcing myself to be truthful and present, instead of hiding away in emotional isolation, as I am 98% of the time. Originally I was going to compose some illustrated trips down memory lane, until I realized that it would put me at risk of getting sucked into an episode of regret, which would be quite counterproductive. Besides, without detailed backstories, it would all be too specific for readers to appreciate. Anyway, I have my memoir for that, if anyone is truly interested.
Speaking of, I was briefly tempted to update my memoirs with recent experiences, but decided against it; nothing from my recent past warrants a place in that tome.
And so now I come full circle back to the point of this exercise: what it's like having terminal heart disease far enough along that death is not far away. Simple: it's like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, not knowing when exactly it'll go off, but certain it won't be some ten or twelve years from now.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating: given the current state of affairs on planet Earth, the gun can't go off soon enough. We've totally fucked our home, with zero hope of unfucking it. Angry much? Damned right. People in general are such miserable shits that I'm embarrassed to admit I'm a human being. My friends notwithstanding, you can all go rot in hell (assuming hell is actually a thing).