I'll tell you what I want; what I really, really want

TRIGGER WARNING: Very frank discussion about end of life and assisted suicide

Over the past three months, I've written a lot about what I want that I can't ever have again (Doug and our happy marriage, a life worth living, joy, happiness). I've written a lot about what I don't want (this life sentence, now with solitary confinement thanks to COVID-19). But it occurred to me this morning that I haven't written (other than the vague, "why do I have to keep living this life I don't want?" musings) about what I would do if I could do exactly what I want given that Doug's gone. 

Ideally, what I would love is to choose to exit this life - gracefully, with medical assistance (to make sure it happens quickly and with no goofs). Why?

For starters, it would remove all sense of desperation, because I would know that I can exit stage left on my own terms, with proper medical assistance. It would motivate me to do the things I need to do to get my affairs in order, get the house in shape to put it on the market, and plan. It would mean a peaceful - rather than traumatic or bitter drawn-out ending. It would allow me to say goodbye to my family, and even have them present if they want to be. It would allow me to be an organ donor. It would mean peace of mind. And that peace of mind might actually lead to staying around longer than the year or two it would probably take to do all that work and planning, because just knowing that the option is there may take some of the wind out of the sails of desire (forbidden fruit, and all that, right?).

If I were living in Belgium, I could do just that.

But not here in the States. Nope; here, my options are as follows:

1. Hope to die in my sleep (I've done that every night since February 20, and it hasn't worked yet).
2. Try to find some way to take myself out that is guaranteed to work and be painless (and as there are no methods that fit both criteria, that's out - and believe me, I've done the research).
3. Continue to live this not-a-life, continue being miserable, and continue making everyone around me miserable until I finally die an old, bitter woman who will be missed by exactly no one because I will have already been dead LONG before the end finally comes.
4. TRY to live again, only to face a new wave of wanting to get the hell off this plane of existence every time life shoots me down (which I now know that it will, every goddamn time I find a SLIVER of happiness [source: my almost 55 years of experience in this shitty life]).

Doesn't Belgium's model make far more sense? Isn't that infinitely better than the trauma of suicide, or watching me slowly die and become progressively more hateful and bitter over the next couple of decades?

Look, I'm not clinically depressed, whatever you may want to think. I have a history of anxiety, that's true - but not clinical depression. I AM depressed, but I'm depressed because my life circumstances rather require it and not because of a biochemical, medical issue. Frankly, I'd think it odd if I DIDN'T feel life was no longer worth living after losing the love of my life. This isn't an impulsive desire: it's the result of many hours of thinking and analyzing and contemplating what's realistic for me. It's a perfectly rational recognition that my life is no longer worth living, and will not ever be worth living again. I'm not some impulsive teenager who just got dumped by her boyfriend; I'm not a long-time sufferer of clinical depression with a brain telling me things that are patently untrue. What I am is barely ten years away from being a senior citizen, with zero hope of ever again having a life that I deem worth living. I LOVED sharing my life with Doug. I DO NOT WANT to live WITHOUT sharing my life; a life without him means no inside jokes, no true intimacy, no travel partner. What's the point of making memories without having that one person I want to make them WITH?

No one cares about that, though. They care about what THEY want; they care about what their religion says; they care about denying the reality that sometimes, and for some people, life is simply too painful and too difficult to be worthwhile.

What about what I want? What about my loneliness, which hangs over my every waking minute? My sadness, which is ever present? My rage, for which I have yet to find an outlet? My pain? Those don't factor into the equation at all. Nope; in this country, I'm free to march with Nazis (not that I ever would because FUCK NAZIS); I'm free to go out in public and expose anyone and everyone to a potentially deadly disease; I'm free to buy all the guns; I'm free to euthanize a pet whose quality of life is nonexistent. But I'm not free to choose the time and place of my death. Not unless I first suffer the pain of a lengthy terminal illness, and even then not unless I move to a state that allows assisted suicide.

Instead, I'm supposed to just die a little every day, alone, until I finally die for real, alone. And if you don't think THAT'S more tragic than the alternative Belgians can exercise, then I don't know what else to tell you.