Seventy-eight days since she died, and I’m struggling to envision myself still being here come June. My family, gone. The most important person in my life, gone. And in their absence is an emotional crater that can never be refilled. I’ve stopped asking myself, ‘Why?’. And while I’m careful not to pity myself beyond what is reasonable(?), one cannot help but ask himself why he must endure. Childhood trauma that altered the trajectory of my life before I could choose otherwise. A divorce that fractured everything. An abusive step-father that opened the door to alcoholism for my mother. Sister’s addiction and death. And finally, the death of A. Why must I endure this? I don’t. There is literally no one here to stop me from ending myself. But I’m not ready. The cat is still alive, although I can’t be sure how much longer, as even she seems to be edging closer to the final edge. And while I will concede that I have caught myself laughing (real, legitimate laughter), my days straddle red anger and total emptiness, the kind of desolation that gives you a thousand-yard stare.
Camus: “ There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer. And if it is true, as Nietzsche claims, that a philosopher, to deserve our respect, must preach by example, you can appreciate the importance of that reply, for it will precede the definitive act. These are facts the heart can feel; yet they call for careful study before they become clear to the intellect.”