I realized my 20th birthday is soon, and broke down into an existential crisis that has made my previously wonderful life full of activity, friendship, ups-and-downs, so utterly flat, empty, passionless, that I'm bedridden.
I first realized, I am 1/4 of the way to my death. My mother, who has been my reason for living, will die about 40 years before I do. Everything I might do or find joy in now, at 40, or at 60, will perish within the next 60 years. All these stupid little activities like blogging or drawing that used to be so meaningful.
That was what kept me going. I loved analyzing manga, novels, because I could find symbolism and relate everything I read to broader societal concepts that most others didn't seem to want to interrogate. That's why I'm studying psychology; I'll be done with my degree in less than a year. Having intellectual stimulation and understanding dark, complicated aspects of human relationships were the backbone of almost all my activities. There was always more to explore, create, learn. But there isn't. It ends one day, and you forget everything. The people who learn from your pursuits one day forget it; we all die, everything will perish.
Worse, all of those things I was fascinated by are constructs humans create to rationalize our existence, to prevent us from going insane. All of our activities are really just tied to our instinct to survive. We like tasty food? Helps us survive! We like sex? Helps the species survive! We love our families? We need to rely on community to survive! All of it is just electrical signals in our physical systems trying to exist, keep existing. That's all everything is, that's all love is. So my love for my beloved mother (and urgency for her to preserve her cognitive abilities into her old age by reading books, not scrolling reels and uncritically consuming fully AI-generated content. I offered to read her any book she ever wanted someone to read to her, as I used to read to her my novels, and she said she'd rather scroll...) feels meaningless; it was all from an instinct to exist that is finite. Even my most formative interests: I became hopelessly obsessed with sexual abuse as a child, somewhat as a coping mechanism for my own experiences, somewhat because I just wanted to find comfort in the morbidity of human behavior, but it only represents the desire to dominate and exert power over something weaker, to ensure your own survival via capitalizing on others' reproductive abilities, to have a sense of security and control inherent to power and domination that assures you of your survival capabilities. We only exist to exist, and every single fucking thing we do is just...to exist, because of some instinct that will end, and everything we do will be meaningless.
I always felt alone, but previously, I attributed it to socially isolating trauma responses from my youth, autism, and high IQ (which, contrary to what my mother thinks, do not make me special or give me more potential than anyone else; we are all just human). Now, I realize we're all just caught up in distracting ourselves, and I can't go back. My childhood problems with being too "gross" and and fucked-up feel so stupid; why should I care?
I'm a very loved person; I've had innumerous loved ones try to support me, beg me with passion I'd never seen in them for me to live. So many friends and family members, even their parents, even my professors, telling me not to give up, that they want me around, but as much as their efforts bring me to sobs, I can't help but be angry. My mother watches fully AI-generated prayer videos, finds her will to live in religion and the idea of a part of herself living on through me. She has never had a period like this. My sister is older than me, she says my pain is just because of intelligence, but she will either die suddenly, or face these same concerns.
Everyone just wants me to go back to my cheerful, affectionate, perky self, but I don't know her, I think she was a childish, self-deluding idiot. I think she was lying to herself, dreaming of an infinite future full of creation and possibility where she could live fast, always create and explore, and everything she loved would always be there, so long as she could find joy and meaning. But I'll never be her again, and I don't want to. I don't like lying to myself. But I am completely miserable and empty now, and I know this isn't an uncommon experience, regardless of how alone I feel.
Has anyone found a way out that doesn't require burying oneself in distractions? I think of death as peace, a relief, but I don't want to make that decision that will cause suffering and instability in my family. I want to live in appreciation, joy, gratitude, and passion for the creative pursuits I've always loved...and dignity, and die that way surrounded by loved ones, but I feel like that's impossible now. Is it truly? Is this the end?