A few years ago, I was playing a card game with my cousins, husband and brother that put the dealer in morally ambiguous situations and required the other players to guess what their response would be. For instance, one question was, “If Dealer cheated on their spouse years ago due to a turbulent period in their relationship, but the issues were resolved and the spouse never found out about the affair, would the dealer tell them anyway?”
Of course the game was quite controversial with answers sometimes not being as one suspected. There was one particular question that stuck with me because I answered it very truthfully and the table around me tried to argue otherwise. The question was along the lines of, “If you saw the apocalypse happening in front of you, and you had a choice to escape to a bunker beneath your house and know that you couldn’t leave for 20 years (but you had enough supplies to last this long), would you take it?”
Obviously the most human choice is ‘yes’ because the survival instinct would kick in. I however, argued that I wouldn’t. I would rather die on the spot than endure twenty years of absolute solitude and no end in sight. I was surprised that everyone around me was shocked at my response, but the reality is I have always been very sure that quality of life is more important to me than longevity. My husband and family know I would rather be euthanized than live as a quadriplegic or vegetable if the day ever came. I’ve often said I don’t really desire to grow old because the thought of living with never ending health issues, losing my mind or watching everyone I love leave, is a genuine nightmare for me.
So this is where I stand today. I understand the world and times we live in are unprecedented and far more difficult on people such a myself, but I can’t help but feel a deepening depression take over my conscious mind every second I’m awake. I turned thirty in quarantine, and no one cared, I finished writing a book and no one cared, I celebrated two years sober, and no one cared. Because right now, any little thing I accomplish or do, means nothing in the scheme of things. It’s all fodder and pointless because the world has a whole lot more going on. When the people you love the most, cannot be bothered to check up on you, to ask how you are, to try to brighten your spirits or congratulate you and support you, it makes it seem as though this is really a battle you are in alone.
I can’t find any joy in any activity, because I’ve done it a million times already and I might do it another million times before this is over. I’m trying my best to reach out to family, to try and make plans for online activities, but when they are all living in a non-lockdown zone, is it any surprise they have no genuine care or desire for the struggles I am facing? It begs the questions once again, is this a quality of life I really want to endure for the forseeable future? Do I really want to live the next however many days in confinement, with no outside interaction? Is it enough to warrant being here? Or has the time come, that once was a hypothetical question in a card game? How many more days, that are exactly the same as the last, do I want to experience before I decide this hell isn’t worth enduring any longer?