My main, current reason? Several months of profound detachment from reality that reinforced my lifelong dissociative streak, on top of investing in and promptly losing a short-lived but very important relationship.
Mostly, I'm just not fucking built for this, any of it. To even risk the possibility of suffering, or worry, or stress, or lack; to have to administrate my own life, and be in charge of my own survival; to have to live. Every time I think of life it overwhelms me. Too big, too much, too many moving parts. I don't know how anybody does it. It does me no favors to zoom out and dissociate all big-picture but I can't help but extrapolate what I see and apply it to humanity at large, the pretense, the arbitrariness, the dreadful feeling that even if I were to have a "successful" or "meaningful" life it wouldn't be enough... whatever enough means.
If I succeed, it's over. Oblivion. The eternal nothingness. I absolutely do not want to be reborn, reformed or awaken into some other reality, unless I'm objectively better off. If that can even be measured. Safer bet to just be destroyed. I am worried, both for myself when I truly cease to exist (the main person feeding me psychotic delusions insisted that "death is not an out" and "there's no getting off this ride") and for my family. My sweet sister, my mother, my dad... they will never see this coming.
I keep turning it over in my head. Tossing it back and forth: "I can die at 22 and they'll have to live the rest of their lives without me." Such guilt. Such pathetic embarrassment underneath the impenetrable numbness, to think that I'm willing to cut my life short to avoid suffering when I haven't known a second of "true suffering" in my life. Feels like an easy out, a cheat code that'll dump all the trauma on them. But I live every day with that end in mind. Hhh.
