The only possible ways I could ever experience any kind of recovery come down to factors completely out of my control. And at this point, after a little over 15 years of constant isolation and near ceaseless rumination on death/suicide, it's highly unlikely that even the most positive developments could make a meaningful difference. Instead, it would all amount to being as absurdly futile as trying to revive a rotting corpse that's been moldering away in its own decay for years upon years. 

When it comes down to it though, I'd like to think that perhaps these thoughts of death/suicide/madness that have swirled in my head for the majority of my existence now, might be themselves a kind of silver lining, given that they've numbed me emotionally beyond the point of caring for much of anything. This itself could be a blessing beyond compare, shielding me from the grief of future loss, such as in the case of my mother. Additionally, after spending so much time meditating on and fantasizing about death, I'd also like to think that's it's prepared me well for facing my own death, and that I (hopefully) won't have to experience the existential terror/dread that most people are blindsided by once their mortality looms into view. As it is, I find it's not so much the fear of death that keeps me from suicide, but the hassle involved in dying itself. If it were as simple as pushing an instant self-termination button on my arm, I would've long ago fallen to a pile of vaporized dust. Having said that, it'll be deeply ironic if, after all this time of dwelling in an isolation wrought with a suffocating atmosphere of pure morbidity and rife with yearnful thoughts of death, that I still might find myself fearful of death when I near my natural end. An entire lifetime of living death, and yet death itself didn't become any easier to embrace. What a pathetic exercise in sheer pointlessness, but in that I guess it'd only be fitting for me.  

What does seem to be a certainty is that, once the day arrives wherein I find myself completely alone, it will also be the day that *real* madness will take me, and whatever follows from that will as a guarantee include a complete and total extinction to whatever remains of my humanity, and hopefully from there, suicide as well. There's no avoiding this, no more than there's any avoiding the very passage of time itself. All I can do is try and steel myself to what awaits me, and meditate further on death and the numbing desensitization that comes with it. Count yourself **extremely lucky** if you have the highly taken for granted for privilege to adjust your future in any such way that doesn't inevitably end in madness and death, and that in my case comes closer and closer to arriving with each passing moment. Like being locked in a room on a sinking ship and watching helplessly as it slowly fills with seawater and envelops you within its icy and indifferent grasp. Some are born to swim, and some are born to drown, and there's no pity, mercy, or reason to be found in any of it.

TL;DR: Madness and death are all that defines my future, and all that awaits me.