Is it this lump of complex meat between our ears that makes life so complicated? Is this thing that has enabled us to become masters of our biosphere ultimately our destruction? Or is it only some of us? Perhaps those we describe as sociopaths are the future, able to move through life unburdened by self-doubt and the constant worry of their effect on others. Or perhaps I am generalising, assuming that my affect is the norm. maybe the mass of humanity manages the everyday, copes with vicissitudes of life without too much worry, and it is only my unwarranted assumption that my mental state is the norm that is at fault. Perhaps I am merely the opposite end of the bell curve to the sociopath; I carry the weight of conscience that they slough off, like a duck in a rainstorm. (but even that thought weighs heavy; am I not just grasping at straws to make myself feel special?)
I’ve hurt someone I professed to love. Again. It’s become a pattern and, perhaps more than that, an inevitability. I’ve long thought that the only worthwhile reason for existence is to make the world a better place, in whatever small way I can. To be happy to and make other people happy, to improve things. But if my existence does the opposite, makes the world worse by bringing unhappiness, where does that leave me?
The thing that has stopped me before is the thought that my leaving may hurt some small number of people so severely that it is unconscionable, even though I am not here to live with the consequences, but that position is increasingly untenable.