You Can Get Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

We went for a team outing today - to the Great America amusement park. The park has some well known thrilling rides. We went on all of them. Usually, I am excited about going to such places, however, this time I didn't feel any thrill at all.

I recently consulted with a therapist who diagnosed me with what they term "psychic masochism" – essentially, an addiction to sadness. They suggested this condition has developed from prolonged depression, to the point where it’s become normalized. Indeed, their assessment resonated. My life has been a relentless cycle of isolation and burnout. Sleep-deprived nights, hours of work, grueling workouts, and endless research papers fill my days. I've distanced myself from friends and social interactions, constructing a solitary world around me. Yet, amidst this frenetic activity, a profound emptiness lingers.

There's a certain point in life where a profound emptiness settles in and you are simply dead inside. Everything becomes a question mark, a mere obligation. Joy becomes a distant memory, replaced by a monotonous routine. Your existence is reduced to fulfilling a professional role, a hollow shell going through the motions. At the amusement park, I saw reflections of myself in the employees – their eyes held a similar vacancy. Their job descriptions seemed to omit the essential ingredient - cheerfulness. It was a stark contrast to the vibrant atmosphere such places are meant to evoke. My workplace is no different. I work for ten hours straight as if nothing bothers me. I've developed a thick skin against deception and praise. It takes an extraordinary effort to impress me now. I won't smile unless they make that as a part of my job description.

My life now is a stark contrast to just a couple of years ago. Back then, the prospect of visiting Universal Studios in LA filled me with excitement. Vacations were meticulously planned adventures. Even a simple trip to the cinema was exciting. Today, I find myself staring blankly at screens, utterly detached. Nothing seems to ignite a spark - not romance, horror, action, or even the cleverest plot twist. Stand-up comedy, once a source of laughter, now leaves me indifferent. Netflix has become a digital graveyard, where I scroll through content but never start any. My attention span has dwindled to the point where full-length movies, let alone entire series, feel like insurmountable tasks. It's strange because many of my friends find solace and enjoyment in these very things, their lives punctuated by daily doses of "Netflix and chill". I used to be part of a fantastic hiking group that made every weekend an adventure. Although driven by masochism, those hikes were my primary social outlet. Unfortunately, Shubham and Aman's departure has brought those times to an abrupt end.

It's become commonplace to see LinkedIn posts from CEOs brimming with optimism about the future. It's hard to discern the genuine enthusiasm behind these proclamations, especially considering their advanced age. Perhaps they're genuinely invested in inspiring the next generation, or perhaps it's a strategic move to bolster their personal brand and financial standing for their children. Ah, the classic attachment of humanity to their own blood lineage. Regardless of the motivation, it's clear that projecting enthusiasm is a key component of their role, much like influencers promoting vacations or beauty products. I've become increasingly skeptical of these overly optimistic visions of the future, particularly when it's clear that the benefits will be reaped at a significant cost to several generations. I suspect the core issue lies in my conscious decision to distance myself from the pursuit of wealth and notoriety.

Perhaps, music is one of the few things that still manages to capture my attention. Thankfully, years of listening have honed my ear, allowing me to decipher melodies and harmonies with relative ease. Music has always been a passion, and it’s what keeps my spirits somewhat lifted. I find myself constantly searching for new sounds while also revisiting old favorites. There’s something undeniably nostalgic about rediscovering music from the past, especially the classic ARR tunes I grew up with. Perhaps music is the passion I've been neglecting. It could be the language through which life speaks to my soul, offering rejuvenation and a renewed sense of purpose. I believe this reluctance stems from my deep personal connection to music. It's something I've cherished for years and consider almost a private possession. The idea of commercializing it feels like a betrayal. Beyond music, my purpose lies in serving others. I find fulfillment in supporting those around me, especially the young and enthusiastic who represent our future. Helping those in need brings me immense joy. I've reached a stage in life where my personal ambitions have been eclipsed by a profound desire to contribute to the betterment of others. The pursuit of personal gain and gratification holds little interest for me now. Life's highs and lows, successes and failures, once potent forces, have lost their ability to stir deep emotions. I've developed an emotional detachment, finding equanimity in the face of life's vicissitudes.