With life as I once knew it grinding to a screeching halt, I figured I'd go back through some of the more morose entries in this series, just for the sake of comparison. Apparently I have had a fairly constant Misery Quotient for several years now.We will start with Vent #172, 7 November 1999:
Life indeed goes on — long after the thrill of living is gone.
Today, of course, I have debiliiating diseases. Still, I'm sure you could find people willing to swap places with me in a heartbeat, inasmuch as I own my own home (well, I and a largish bank) and owe no other substantial debt. Things could always be worse, though I dare not say so, lest the Fates take it as a challenge.
Not so long after that, Vent #210, 22 August 2000:
(1) [M]y level of frustration hasn't declined, and isn't likely to do so, and (2) various drug therapies are having little discernible effect. At some point, sooner or later, I'm going to snap. I know it. It's as inevitable as dawn after dark.
I could have written that last month, and maybe I did and didn't notice.
The onset of insomnia brought some new woes, as we see in Vent #617, 15 February 2009:
There are times when I want to stand up and scream "WHEN DO I GET MY LIFE BACK?" I suppose the real question is whether I really want the answer to that.
Apparently the answer is "YOU DON'T," in the same overwrought upper case.
I was still ambulatory in those days, though. Today — well, here's Vent #969, 14 June 2016:
But the real issue, I suspect, is self-sufficiency: if I can't take care of myself, what's the point in prolonging my existence? And, in a related issue, why should I deplete my life savings on behalf of something that's no longer life?
So that's where I am. It's not the place I wanted to be, but it's the place that's been assigned to me. So far as I can tell, there's nothing I can do to change that location.
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