I’ve been tossing this idea around again, as I’ve been noticing the telltale signs of creeping depression. Brief ones, yes. Muted, yes. But definite, like a little beckoning echo in the water that sneaks closer and closer on the wind. Pretty soon, it will cocoon me again, like a cool fountain mist on a blistering day.
I have never agreed that suicide is a way to end pain. Depression was never painful to me; depression was defeat. The relinquishing of the fight to improve and find fulfillment. The uselessness of trying to be good enough. Depression was abdicating the responsibility for fixing my habits, my fat, my kids, my marriage, my house, my…anything that chronically isn’t good enough. In that way, depression is a relief, a way of not having to struggle anymore, and being able to escape to a quiet little world where I can rest.
Of course, I see the contradiction; do you? I actually didn’t five minutes ago when I started this ramble, but as I write the words ‘fight,’ ‘defeat,’ and ‘escape,’ it hit me. The continuous uphill climb to be worthy presupposes that the way I am isn’t enough, and that the real world needs escaping. Striving becomes depression at the point of futility. Depression becomes suicidality at the point of surrender.
At what point am I good enough? At what point is LIFE good enough? If this is as good as I’m ever going to get, if growth stops, if the game is rigged and personal growth is an illusion; if i’m set up to asymptotically approach zero and never make it, then what’s the point of playing the game? If my ‘loss,’ the failure to attain the moving mirage of ‘better;’ if this is the pre-determined futile endgame, then whoever set up the game is an asshole.