Why The Cost of Being Alive and Well Is Getting Precariously Unaffordable
It took me longer than usual to come up with a title that appropriately describes what I’ve been feeling for the past few months or may even years. And this is definitely not an attempt to collect oodles of sympathy or a blatant scream for help. And even if those were my motives, I can’t imagine how anybody or anything can provide the amount of relief that will suffice.
I just need to know whether or not I’m the loner in this ongoing saga of mental unrest, that’s exacerbated by the inability to propel that once-trusted turnaround, that used to arrive just in time to rescue you from where most of us are now languishing.
The simple things are impossible to accomplish and the shit that used to be hard has been catapulted beyond reach, and so there’s no point in even trying to jump that high.
Nothing makes sense.
The universal language that didn’t need to be interpreted now forces me to find innovative ways to decode, in order to furnish the basic meaning of a life that’s getting heavier to carry by the minute.
Nothing brings pure joy.
Like, no wonder self-help gurus and “happiness doctors” are closing up shop! Those very pricey bullet points that were touted as the ticket to everlasting peace aren’t holding up so well these days. And of course we can refer to the backstory of schemers like embattled life coach Tony Robbins, and figure out why those who make millions off of the pain and suffering of the easily-misled, tend to be far worse off than the ones they’re robbing.
Nothing brings relief.
Back in the day, the bottles of wine and vodka used to stimulate the urge to be creatively fantastical and even boldly optimistic, because of the desired effects that tamper with reality in ways that keep away the boogeyman of accountability, who tries to nag you back to firing squad of challenges, and the pending items that can’t be washed away with liquid poison.
But I gave up the bottles of my discontent when my health began to suffer, and my age began to ring the bell of disgraceful negligence that can no longer be comically explained.
And even as I bask in the blissfulness of narrowly missing the chapter in the book of life that depicts the middle-aged struggling writer who succumbs to the jagged jaws of mind-altering substances, there’s the added dilemma of running around in circles when it comes to the simplicity of being justifiably satisfied.
The pleasures of living are fading away, and the stress of it all have combined into an incoherent and twisted manuscript, that I spend most of my time trying to translate.
Nothing really matters.
This would ordinarily be classified as the main culprit of severe depression, but the scary part is that I’m not feeling the symptoms that connect to that disposition. In fact, I feel mentally uncluttered, although there are the mood swings that match the highs and lows of daily living.
So the issue has to be the buzzkill of accommodating more “lows” than “highs,” and having to adjust to the never-changing imbalance of defeat at every turn, even when going above and beyond the call of duty with job searches and the quest of establishing real-life connections with real people without the accompaniment of passwords — religiously drops you off at a dead end.
The more you get used to that view, the more you embrace the words — “fuck it!”
Everything is shit.
The world feels like a moving vessel that’s headed to a destination that none of us want to go. It’s the roller coaster ride that you hop on with the expectations that deteriorate as soon as holding on for dear life becomes a threatened act of survival. It’s the sign up sheet that was passed around when you weren’t in the room, and so your name was printed without your consent, and now you’re stuck in a cyclone of debris that can’t be avoided because running for cover only extends the maze of disarray.
You know things are bad when you catch yourself wondering about the serenity that comes when breathing isn’t an option.
Of course that’s an irresponsible pattern of thinking because there are people who suffer from diseases that can’t be cured, and minimizing the privilege of being alive and well can be identified as recklessly selfish with accusations of mimicking an ungrateful dimwit.
And yet I could also argue that being alive is overrated when you consider how each day becomes the replica of the other, as emotions cower to the regimen of cursing out influential fucks who are fucking up what was already fucked, but is now even more fucked; while daydreaming about the Insta-besties whose lives are a catalog of the perfection that you don’t even want anymore.
We are not alone.
I refuse to believe that I’m the only one who is becoming disillusioned with this ailing climate of disengagement that keeps demanding more than is humanly possible.
Attention spans have been tragically weakened, and blurry visions from tearless ducts definitely signal the mutiny of cells that are beginning to formulate into the cause for alarm.
We are swelling up with poisoned factoids, and the gunk of being over-stuffed is spewing out and forming the volcano that will blow up any day now.
I just need to know that when it does, we will be holding hands.