I have lived a completely unremarkable life.
If I believed that regret served any purpose other than motivating depression I would have so many regrets. So many times I should have taken one path but instead took the other, only to realize later I’d chosen poorly.
All my life I’ve suffered from depression. I couldn’t demand enough of myself to rise above mediocrity. Some of my choices were so bad that had I not been fortunate in the way they played out I could have done irreparable damage to my life. As it was they cost me dearly.
Looking back, I’m sure had ADHD and autism been understood decades ago I might have gotten help with the parts of my character I didn’t understand.
But here I am, about to turn 70, with nothing to do but accept my past and live in the moment. I spend nearly every day in my room with my dog and my housemate’s dog. I don’t go out much. I’m not especially productive, I don’t write like I should nor do I read as much as I should.
In a very real way I’m waiting to die. I’m not anticipating it, I’ll do nothing to hurry it along. I am studying more about the right way to think about death and accept its inevitability. When Cleo died in 2018 I didn’t want to go on alone. I enjoy being alone among people, but I need a dog or cat to keep me company. So now it’s Stella and me, and most days Rosie as well.
This isn’t the way I thought it would all end, but most things in my life haven’t gone the way I planned. Why should this be any different?
I have no idea how to end this entry gracefully, so I’ll just stop typing.
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