It’s no secret that INFPs are the type most prone to suicide. I’m not trying to attribute suicide ideation to only a particular set of personality factors or state that people of other personalities never feel inclined to end their own lives. It’s just more…common among this particular personality type. My personality type.
Now, I don’t feel suicidal. I don’t think I have ever truly felt suicidal because the thought of terminating my own life is just too frightening. We all want to live, every bit of living matter of this earth, from humans down to wriggling amoebas.
But I have felt times when I just wished I could stop existing. Just, phase out of this world. It would be like I never existed. Never conceived.
And I enter into these melancholy moods, where I’m too scared of pain and oblivion when conscious of the fact that I’m ending my life and simply want a great big Nothingness to settle over the places and spots in the Universe where my life has touched, not because my life is terrible.
On the surface, it isn’t. Hey, maybe some people would think I have it tough. Dire financial straits. Daughter of a stressed single mother. No career plan in sight. Sickened by society. Worries. Anxiety, in its multifarious forms. But none of those physical, or should I say sublunary difficulties, truly send me into a spiral of despair.
It’s thinking that makes me depressed and not want to exist. To be specific, over-thinking. And, plot twist: I’m still depressed. I rather think of it as a natural reaction to reality for me. Unless I can blur the edges with drugs or alcohol (and I don’t do that because I’m not that kind of person and maybe it’s because some part of me still wants to live and be healthy and hopes for a better future), reality hurts. ‘No artist tolerates reality’ – Nietzsche. I don’t know if I deserve the appellation of ‘artist’, seeing as my output has been negligible lately, but I truly detest reality.
Reality is a bad dream. I only live when I read books or write or dream about other worlds. Better worlds. Magical worlds.
Basically, I get depressed when I contemplate the meaning of existence.
I often have trouble in believing in my writing capabilities. This results in the following thought pattern:
If you can’t create a bloody good piece of art that can live on long after you have died, there’s no point in living. You might as well die, for all the impact you are going to have on the world. You’re just a useless baggage of flesh and bone, lugging yourself around and being a parasite on Mother Earth.
Obviously, not a sunny view. Please, don’t adopt it. But, it’s just the way my thoughts are aligned at the moment.
But here’s where it gets into the dark stuff. The stuff that not many people ponder because it’s useless to do so or they can’t or they don’t feel like it.
I wonder if there is any meaning to existence if we’re all just a collation of atoms working together to create a larger system. As an atom consists of 99% empty space, we are therefore basically 99% empty space, only our brains perceive ourselves to be solid and hefty and chockfull of substance. Most of what we call me, the body, the mind, the consciousness, is EMPTY SPACE. We’re like these holograms, these ghosts, wafting among other atoms in the environment, only we see it from so great a distance that it looks like we are made up of something.
All of life is an illusion. Mouth drops. Whoosh. Down the chute of existential depression I go.
And then I start thinking about the universe and how we are basically nothing and that we’ll just return to the earth and decay and our body will break down into atoms that will return to the universe.
And how nothing really exists outside the realm of human perception. Not books. Not words. Not language. Not philosophy.
And how one day the sun will swallow us up and maybe that will be the end of humanity, if we haven’t migrated to other planets and ravaged them.
And then I come across a video that has puts into words what has discomforted me for a long time:
In it, Neil DeGrassy, a physicist, poses the question as to how life forms of a greater intelligence than us view us. Our DNA is remarkably similar to apes and yet that fractional DNA difference manifests as a tremendous gap in intelligence. If an alien life form is of different DNA to us, as it most likely will be, how much more intelligent will they be? Perhaps they view us they way we view ants skittering on the ground. Would you try to talk to an ant? It’s impossible, right? This is frightening. It’s hard to say why. I suppose it makes me feel both awestruck and sad and insignificant at the same time. If I think about it long enough, I feel like I will go mad.
So, there you. I’ve spread out some of my nihilistic thoughts before you. These are the kinds of weird, outlandish contemplations that instigate my depressive states. A by-product of existence.
I hope you don’t think I’m too crazy, after reading this, whether you are a reader of my blog or only just stumbled across it.
Sometimes, I feel crazy. Sometimes, thinking about these things for too long can make you crazy.
And, yet, I can’t seem to stop.