Greetings, ladies, gentlemen and officers of the royal navy.
I have recently encountered a problem I never imagined I would have: I, somehow, believe that my life does not have enough suffering. Perhaps it's the dearth of non-depressing fiction in my life, perhaps it's the result of the mass media accentuating the negative, perhaps it is just the changing hormone levels, but for some reason I have been pervasivly thinking that everything in the world is bad and only going to become worse. People suffer, genocides happen, nobody but ruthless individualists thrive, good does not exist, decent people are mythological creatures, rulers who are not power-hungry incompetent mass murderers are also mythological creatures, the modern world in general is a hellhole and the only thing that prevents it from becoming everybody's favourite grim darkness of the far future is the fact that God has not tried to physically kill us, yet.
Now, this would not be a problem if it did not cause me to feel what I can only describe as survivor guilt. Despite the fact that I've been living in Russia with all the glorious suffering it's supposed to put on its people according to the classical literature, my life, so far, has been quite normal. And herein lies the issue: I cannot help but feel intensely guilty for not suffering while all those people did. Whenever I read, or even remember, about the various injustices throughout history, I feel not only empathetic with all those involved, but also intensely shameful that I did not go through the same pains. How can I be so happy, enjoying the warm sun, for example, while another man of my age is being brutally tortured to death after being captured by the members of a violent rebellion? Every time I buy a new pair of socks I can't help but think of the people who slaved in sweatshops to make them and the crushed dreams of the art students who are forced to stang behind the counter and sell me the damn things.
I sought to seek refuge in fiction, but alas, I couldn't help but be revolted by everything but the most depressing stories. Anything that does not involve the characters repeatedly failing at everything and then gruesomely dying gets condemned by my mind as "childish" and "unrealistic", while I suckle at tragedies such as "The Lord of Flies" with pervertedly masochistic abandon. Relishing in emotional scars of fictional people, however, did nothing to alleviate my grim worldview and only, as expected, worsened the condition.
Recently, I have found it difficult to believe that any goodness in anything, be it people or ideas, has any chance of existing, and that it is an inevitable course of action that the worst triumphs in the end: no struggle between a man and his circumstances can end with anything but more suffering than there was beforehand, and if said man becomes better off, than it is only because he has made others suffer in his stead. Beyond the obvious consequences of encouraging suicidal thoughts and inaction, this mindset has caused me to begin losing hope of everything being alright in the end, my only refuge from the aforementioned pseudo-survivor guilt, and thus exist in a self-recreating whirlpool of feeling woefully under-suffering and criminally happy.
It was only logical, therefore, that I would eventually resort to self-harm. I am writing this message a day one of my roommates has stopped me from carving gashes into my arm with a modeling knife in a particularly strong guilt delirium I entered after reading a newspaper article about another revolution in Africa turning out to be meaningless. I, obviously, do not wish for this behaviour to become my norm, after all, how am I going to finish my new Warmachine army if I keep breaking those expensive knives in my fingerbones, but I have realised that I have driven myself into a metaphysical corner with all the cynicism I have accumulated so far.
With that in mind, I am asking you to hopefully help me stop considering self-mutilation as a respectable afternoon activity.