It does come to a conclusion of “pathetic” when one sees his or her parents, whom happen to be forty years older, are more energetic and productive then him or herself.

I still have a few weeks before it can be said that I have managed to survive on this planet for thirty years. In that small amount of time, however, I really felt as though my life has equaled that of a rather elder age… elder than my own parents apparently.

Again, I am sure there are those outside myself and my mother who are of hopeful certainty that I am just not putting in enough effort… but as it goes… I think it was that constant effort – that desperate effort that was always pushing my mind, heart and body beyond my personal limits – is what has aged me so quickly.

Yes… am only so old physically. Yes, my physically body is healthy. Nevertheless, there has been much lost.

I can think back to just five years ago when I would be constantly doing at least something. I’d be interested, searching, creating. I’d get absorbed in things from reading, trying games, researching, listening to music. I’d be getting responsibilities that I could get done without any repercussions on my health done. I was very efficient.

Now, I see many things I used to do just sitting around collecting dust. The website I used to store character studies I would get down right obsessed in is pretty much a memorial. The stories I’d write remain on hold because the inspiration dies off too quickly. The story I’d always read once in a while to enjoy as well as tweak is daunting for me to look at now. Games I found I could play and truly enjoy on the computer have been left unused for a great amount of time due to finding them either requiring too much energy and focus, too painful on my tennis elbow and/or just too time consuming for me to be able to keep up with. Drawing is pretty much near impossible and I really just lack inspiration to draw anyway.

There is simply a profound sort of tiredness. Even with little things I would address right way like mail… there are envelopes and boxes I will let sit for a couple of days before finally opening them. Once upon a time it would be an immediate thing. The same goes with emails – but most of those tend to be charities asking for donations or signatures for petitions…

I really think those years of my adolescence truly spent the amount of stress, energy and livelihood that usually is reserved for the time one s twenty to their fifties or sixties… then, upon finding a nice half decade of relative peace… I’m finally becoming something of a drying husk.

Some of me wonders again… if I weren’t medicated and my bipolar were to run wild once more… would I have the energy again? I quickly think of the repercussions, however… The anxiety, the stress that would come when my obsessive ways get out of hand and my need to finish things in full swing… I’d just be harming myself by pushing my body past its natural limits once more. Ultimately, it would just lead to the drying husk to become completely dried quicker.

Still, I rather miss that energy, that proficiency. I won’t weep over the loss, however. I make do with what I can. My interests and passions slowly become more and more subdued. What I read becomes simpler and simpler… perhaps one day all I’ll be able to handle are children’s picture books. Music is a rarity and I am more likely to “listen” to a song stuck in my head than anything else. There are things I think of that I would like to look up, but often I place it aside for a time where I believe I’d be in a better state for absorbing such information… Other things… briefer and only once in a while…

There are far worse things in life and if anything can be said… with this tiredness, though I get so little done… there actually is little case of worrying over boredom. The mind must be awake, active and focused to be able to become bored. Mine is rarely that these days… instead it merely finds the thought of rest appealing and sleep is rarely ever boring.

Still, it can be troubling. It can cause unease that I’m really just becoming a sloth. Yet, I wonder… do those who are slothful ever care that they are lazy? Also, do they ever think that it would be nice to die at an early age? I think dying by the time I’m forty or fifty would be nice. I hope I die around the time both my parents have passed on.

Admittedly, I somewhat store away “useful” information of ways to suicide if I should someday find myself unable to patiently wait for my time to come.

I do not mean to be ungrateful. For all one know, we may have but one life and when it is gone, it is gone. I do love my parents and I do have the small precious things in life one finds in the everyday. I enjoy our animals. In my parents progressing years, I find amusement and fondness in some of their dwindling senses.

Nevertheless… like how some people who have indeed reached the last chapter of their lives… I just feel ready. I feel fine with the thought of passing on. I cannot see much I can bring to the future. All that potential, all that drive… It was used up. Rather than a slowly growing flame that would slowly reach its peak and then slowly dwindle in turn… Mine blew up into a firework… and the remnants of that flame are quickly disappearing like drops of water on hard, dry desert soil.

Again, I know the future is unforeseeable. After all, back during my teen years I never saw myself being eligible for Medicaid or that I’d be a case that apparently proved so substantial they practically approved it automatically. So, yes… maybe something will happen this next decade that will show a future I never saw possible… or maybe it will just be like now, only the progression of what seems to be myself slowly breaking down due to some aspect of my age will be more severe than now.

Yes… I do feel sorry for my parents if this keeps up. They do not seem to mind. Since I talk about these things to my mother, she knows some of the dilemma I am facing and believes my words, my guilt, my fears… Nevertheless, I still find it pathetic. In a logical view, our positions should be switched if anything. In a strange, physical-yet-not-way, however… I believe I feel older than my parents. Sigh.