It’s not just a physical weariness that grips me; it’s a profound sense of being emotionally, mentally, and spiritually exhausted. This isn’t a new revelation—I’ve voiced similar sentiments in past blog entries. But the darkness seems to deepen with each passing day, with no glimmer of a bright horizon in sight. It feels as though an old monster has resurfaced, clawing at my back, and dragging me into its shadowy abyss.
I find myself trapped in a relentless cycle of work, questioning the very essence of my actions. Why do I continue? What purpose does it serve? The monotony of my routine—working day and night with little to show for it—leaves me feeling hollow. I’ve been teaching martial arts in the evenings, clinging to the hope that I’m making a difference in someone’s life, even as my own passion wanes. I yearn to be remembered as someone who helped, not as someone who merely existed and endured.
Yet, despite my efforts to assist others, I’m often left feeling overlooked and undervalued. I prioritize the happiness of others at my own expense, even though I know the favour is unlikely to be returned. It’s a pattern that has defined much of my life, one where I sacrifice my well-being to aid someone else, only to stew in silence about the injustices I face.
This extends to my social life as well. Friendships have become a source of frustration; the burden of initiation always seems to fall on my shoulders. After decades of reaching out first, I’m exhausted. The disappointment has led me to a point where solitude seems more appealing than the empty exchanges with fair-weather friends. Trust, once a given, has now become a precious commodity I find in short supply—even in myself.
The joys and interests that once coloured my life have faded into the background. I’m left with a desire to escape, to drive until I disappear, but even that is out of reach due to financial constraints. The shackles of necessity bind me here, not the warmth of familial bonds. My children, mostly grown, still depend on me in various ways, though it pains me to see them potentially walking a path similar to mine—especially my son, who shows signs of emotional and mental turmoil.
In moments of reflection, I wonder about the legacy I’m crafting. Is it one of silent suffering and resignation? Or can it be something more—a narrative of perseverance and quiet strength? The answers elude me, but the questions continue to haunt my thoughts.
As I pour these reflections onto the page, I do so not seeking pity or solutions, but as a form of release. This blog serves as a sanctuary where my voice, however weary, can be heard—even if only by the echoes of the void.