I know that happiness and goodness aren't things to be deserved, because many people who deserve to be happy and have good things are not given either according to their merits.  But neither are they things to be expected, because happiness nor goodness fall onto the laps of everyone equally.   If these things are unconditionally hard to find, isn't it strange that we haven't formulated a way to access either by now?

I know that people want to point to pornography and fiction as first-principle solutions for that type of happiness and goodness, but I think we all know that such things aren't visceral; you can't feel any fulfillment from masturbation without relationships.  You don't feel any of the satisfaction from vicariously living the power fantasies of a character far more pathetic, and yet simultaneously far morally superior than you.  Both of these are constructs that can be easily taken apart.

And yet, we're layering on sheets of artificiality, idealism, and romanticism onto the most real ways we can achieve happiness and goodness.  Most of my friends say to me that they wouldn't date friends; simultaneously, the friends that do have dates are able to do so because of me: I make relationships happen on their behalf through gatherings, set-up dates, etc.  I trim down over-expectations of flowers and chocolates, but I do make a point to appreciate small, meaningful gestures.  I've been trying to keep a realistic foundation for my friends so they don't spiral into depression, get into petty fights, etc.  I encourage friends who find themselves in a nasty, near-constant cycle of hookups to take a step back and embrace themselves before they embrace another body.  Moderation, self-indulgence, validation...you name it, I've done it.

And in spite of all of that, I still feel empty inside.  I've tried to derive happiness from myself and achieving goals both in the short and long terms, but it didn't leave me in the least bit satisfied.  Maybe I've internalized a belief that everything I've done doesn't count towards anything, or maybe I always beat myself up for not doing better.  Sometimes it's one, or the other, but at the end of the day I will always feel unsatisfied.

For a long time I've created self-satisfaction in constructing others' lives; helping them make good decisions, reconsider career paths, end rotten relationships and begin new ones (and in one particular instance, refresh an old one into something else entirely).  I don't think I was ever needed for them to continue on the way they were going, but at the same time I can't imagine some of my friends getting out of the worst parts of their own depressive episodes without me. I can't imagine anyone else being the realist, the common-sense speaker because no other friends of mine have sat down to think about these kinds of things at length.  Coming from a culture with high expectations and a sort of arrogant ignorance to how stunted we emotionally are these days, my friends are used to being overachieving paragons that their families can rely on.  So I know my existence has had net positive value on the world, assuming that my friends are the good people I see them as.

It's just that...what's the point of it all?  Part of me knows that I'm just flat out unable to get any dopamine / serotonin rewards from helping people anymore (which is why I can't derive pleasure from what I'd usually do), but a much larger part is trying to wrestle with this is just the dejectedness I feel when I look at the grand scheme of things: that I'm using my friends' lives as tools to make me happy.  That, if I were to be alone, I would be no more happier to be dead than to be alive.  Food that I eat doesn't taste as flavorful as it used to.  Pinching my skin fails to elicit as sharp a pain response as I expect.  Hell, even the sounds of rain and waves jammed into my ears at 3 AM at night fails to leave any impression of calm on me.  No, I don't have COVID.  I can still taste sugar and smell fried garlic, among other things.

It's just that I'm scared that, when I do go into that great unknown, every good (particularly the good) and bad I've ever done will be forgotten and temporary in the memories of the people I love.  It's not so much the fact that life is meaningless, but rather the idea that my life won't be meaningful to someone else.  And then like the life I'm experiencing right now -- a life that seems so empty that it feels almost artificial -- will be remembered as so insignificant that it leaves no impression on anybody.  That's what I'm scared of, and even that fear is slipping away into apathy.

On one hand, I don't want to become a husk of a person that continues to be a waste on my family and friends.  But I don't want them to feel guilt for me dying, even if none of what I want to do is their fault.  And I owe some of these people a lot of things.  At this point, I can only hope I can hold on long enough to pay them all back before I lose even my sense of loyalty. 

If I'm lucky, this will be something that passes with a bit of time and maybe a pep talk.  I'll be able to eat food again, feel good air come in and out of my lungs, etc.  Realistically speaking...I think I'm going to come right back to this hole again, eventually.  And I'm scared of what the future me will become by then.