Extrapolations
of existential irrelevance
It starts
small, like remembering when I did something badly, or when I didn’t do
something I maybe should have. Sometimes it’s envy, when someone I do
everything for shows love and appreciation to someone else when I feel I
deserved it more. When I’m physically unwell it makes sense to reject my
unwieldy, clumsy body as faulty, inept, incapable of functioning. It’s always
an emotional shame-based trigger into the rabbit hole where rationality warps
and tears and I fall further and further from light. The thoughts just wrap
round and round my brain and my body, imprisoning me in a web of deceit until
it’s all I can do to push on past it, relegate the whole sorry mess of me into
a crawl-space under the bed or behind the door while I get on with what I need
to be doing. Because there’s always something I need to be doing for someone –
a child, an employer, a landlord, an animal, a friend, a neighbour, a plant …
those are what keep me from fading irrevocably into the oblivion that yawns in
my wake if ever I slip and cast a sideways glance. The ribbons of self-hatred
unravel any inkling of self-worth I have managed not to reject. And this runs
deep, so deep, until all that makes sense is to make a plan to end the torment.
Two days ago, this was my plan: see out my lease, do right by my landlord, get
my affairs in order, rehome the animals, quietly divest myself of all my worldly
possessions, by donating what is of use to those who might use it, and making
use of the waste collection and recycling services to gradually empty my house,
organize for the equal distribution of my pathetic financial accretions to my
four children after paying off all my debts, walk away quietly and sink, Virginia
Woolf-like under the waves someplace, allowing my bones to be tumbled until
they are opalescent like those of the plesiosaur in the museum. Obviously, one
takes nothing when one goes. Obviously, I am nothing to write home about.
Obviously, there is no hope of redemption. It’s not about the imputed impact on
anybody else. It’s about taking myself away and out of the picture because I
add nothing to the composition and removing myself from it will have little
impact, if any at all. I feel as though I’m not really in the picture anyway. The
small ripples my departure might cause are trifling. I will not be remembered
for anything I would want to be remembered for. Better to be altogether
forgotten. Existentially irrelevant.
