I think I’m coming to grips with the fact that I’m an extremely emotional person. I still try to stem the tears when I can, but I’ve reached the conclusion that some people (and I’m one) are just hyper-emotional. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s a product of my upbringing or life experiences. Whatever it is, it’s not going to change. I know that, because I’ve been trying to change it for the better part of 64 years. Tears come remarkably easily to me; I hope that’s an indication of the depth of my empathy. But there’s an ugly underbelly to the emotions that bring forth tears; that same emotional scale permits anger to rapidly erupt into rage. The love I feel (I’ll call my empathy by that name) when people need my compassion is counter-balanced by the white-hot loathing I feel (I’ll call my unbridled hatred by that name) when I believe people deserve my molten contempt.
My entire conscious life has been spent searching for meaning that, ultimately, I’ve decided does not exist. This universe and everything in it has no intrinsic meaning. We attribute meaning to “all of creation.” But that’s only a wish, not a reality. There’s nothing to search for. It’s inside us. Each of us determines the meaning that merits our very existence. I think suicides don’t necessarily follow pain, but a loss of self-induced meaning. And the loss of self-induced meaning can follow sensations of guilt, betrayal, loss, unworthiness, and so many other bits of broken-ness.
Tonight, on the eve of Christmas Eve, I’m melancholy and wishing the world were a better place.