Paralysis. Anger. Resentment. The contempt in which I hold myself is so overpowering and all-consuming that when it comes to the fore, it is difficult to think of anything other than the passionate hatred I feel towards the man staring back at me as I look into the mirror. Who do you think you are?
You are, without question, the most intelligent, charming and witty man that I have ever come across, yet you fail so miserably at the basics of living that it is difficult to call you anything other than pathetic. How can one man have such depth and breadth of knowledge, accumulated with a lust for learning that is unmatched amongst your contemporaries, yet simultaneously be completely unable to look after even his most basic needs? No, actually, I’d go further than that – you know exactly how to look after yourself, you just refuse to do so, out of some petty feeling of aggrievement, as if none of it is your fault, as if you’re not responsible for your own actions, as if the world is out to get you and you have been wronged somehow, as if it is the height of insolence to be asked to be responsible for your own wellbeing.
Do you know what is the most irritating thing about you? You have almost unlimited potential – I genuinely cannot think of a single thing you could not do if you truly put your mind to it – yet not only do you squander this potential, you do so knowingly, as if doing so is some sort of moral victory against an invisible enemy. Your only enemy is you, and you know that, yet you steadfastly refuse to get out of your own way, preferring to blame yourself rather than solve the problem and eliminate the need for blame in the first place.
Somehow, it gets even worse. Not only do you neglect yourself and then blame yourself for doing so, you then also expect others to feel sorry for you! You, a man of unparalleled intellect, a man capable of anything – you sit there in your self-induced martyrdom and expect those around you to pray for you, to offer their condolences and express their sympathies, to recognise how difficult it must be for someone whose own worst enemy is themselves. It is sheer, unadulterated wretchedness.
You have even gone so far as to produce your own philosophy, such is the hunger you have to prove yourself somehow, but no amount of intellectual capability can save you from the darkness and depth of the black hole that consumes you from the inside. You can rationalise it however you like, but when getting out of bed is the most difficult challenge you face, and you can’t even manage that, the only logical conclusion to draw is that you are a failure.
Every time you get close, every time you think you might finally have saved yourself from the depths of the abyss, every time you see light at the end of the tunnel, the tunnel collapses, and you lament yourself for being stupid enough to think that you could escape. There is no escape, I’m afraid – accept your fate and wait for death.
