I've been trying to make sense of this for days, and the only way it fits is to see it as a second, final curse.
The first one was the life I started with. Social interaction has always felt like a performance where everyone else has the script and I’m improvising badly. On top of that, I didn’t win the genetic lottery physically.
That shaped most of my life. I was the quiet kid who never knew what to say. The easy target for bullying because I didn’t know how to push back. The guy people read as “off” or “creepy” just for existing in the room. Over time you stop pretending it’s temporary. You understand the role you’ve been given: watching life happen right infront of you from the fucking sidelines while everyone else participates. Everyone somehow gets experience any sort of romance in my family except me of course. I had to be the black sheep or whatever you call it.
My first contact with the “black pill” was when I signed myself up for wrestling at 10y old. I did it for like 6-7 years and I really thought I was finally good at something. Maybe my genetics won't stop me from achieving great in this sport. And guess what: On my second tournament I lost, which is not suprising YET. What made me rage was that afterwards I learned that the guy who beat me only started training a year ago. One FUCKING year and he beat me, they even fucking told me that he didnt even show up regularly at training. Genetics literally set the boundaries of what your life can realistically become and I came to terms with that.
Then the second curse showed up.
After one failed attempt where I took Dimenhydrinate and drank some alcoholic drink I landed in the hospital because I had a convulsion and my mother called the ambulance. After that I had constant headaches, then moments where my vision would blur or something felt wrong. I assumed it was stress or just another problem that would disappear after a few hours/days. But they didn't stop so I decided to book an appointment with my doc after some bloodwork and yada yada me going to a neurologist and allat the scans came back. Glioblastoma. I didn't tell my parents because they would 100% force me into treatment but I want to use this to finally die. This have been some bad 19 years of living, I am glad it came to an end.
There’s something almost absurd about the symmetry of it. The first curse was social: a life defined by isolation and failure to connect. The second one is biological: the body itself shutting down. The first made life feel closed off; the second ends it altogether. It's almost poetic.
This is the kind of raw confrontation with existence that people like Camus described. He saw the absurd as born from the confrontation between our human need for meaning and "the unreasonable silence of the world". The secure and familiar world breaks apart and collapses, and we are forced to confront the question of existence.
People like to talk about overcoming adversity, about discipline and self-improvement. But there are limits to that idea. You can't grind your way out of your own brain trying to kill you. Willpower doesn't override biology. The same randomness that shaped the first half of my life is shaping the end of it too. Some people win the lottery of genetics and circumstance. Others don't. Some of us draw badly twice. Nietzsche diagnosed this long ago, recognizing the crisis that comes when we see there is "no overarching reason, order, or purpose to our existence, that it is all fundamentally meaningless and absurd". I got that lesson twice over. First, my social existence was proven meaningless. Now, my biological existence follows suit.
Society sells you a lie. It sells you the lie of "the mass man," as Ortega y Gasset put it, where everybody "feels just like everybody else and is nevertheless not concerned about it". It sells you a script that if you just follow the steps, work hard, and think positive, you'll get the life you're promised. But that script is a simulation. It's a hyperreal construct that has nothing to do with the brutal mechanics of reality. My life is proof of that. I tried to participate in the simulation. I went to the wrestling practices, I tried to learn the social cues. But the underlying code of my existence was incompatible with the program. The first curse was realizing I was locked out of the social simulation. The second curse is the hardware itself failing.
Camus called suicide the "one truly serious philosophical problem" because it's a response to the absurd. He argued that suicide is an admission of defeat, a failure to confront the absurd head-on. He insisted on rebellion, on saying "YES" to life even in its meaninglessness. But what Camus didn't fully account for, I think, is the absurdity of a terminal diagnosis. It's not just a metaphysical confrontation; it's a physical one. The world isn't just silent, it's actively crushing you. My choice to reject treatment and embrace this end isn't a failure to confront the absurd. It's the ultimate confrontation. It's accepting the terms of the second curse without flinching. It's the final act of freedom in a life defined by its absence. Freedom from the lie that I could have ever been anything other than what I was, and freedom from the painful extension of a life that was fundamentally flawed from the start.
At this point there isn't much anger left. Mostly just the recognition that this is how the cards fell. The first curse was a life that never really opened up. The second one closes it.
I am finally free.
The first one was the life I started with. Social interaction has always felt like a performance where everyone else has the script and I’m improvising badly. On top of that, I didn’t win the genetic lottery physically.
That shaped most of my life. I was the quiet kid who never knew what to say. The easy target for bullying because I didn’t know how to push back. The guy people read as “off” or “creepy” just for existing in the room. Over time you stop pretending it’s temporary. You understand the role you’ve been given: watching life happen right infront of you from the fucking sidelines while everyone else participates. Everyone somehow gets experience any sort of romance in my family except me of course. I had to be the black sheep or whatever you call it.
My first contact with the “black pill” was when I signed myself up for wrestling at 10y old. I did it for like 6-7 years and I really thought I was finally good at something. Maybe my genetics won't stop me from achieving great in this sport. And guess what: On my second tournament I lost, which is not suprising YET. What made me rage was that afterwards I learned that the guy who beat me only started training a year ago. One FUCKING year and he beat me, they even fucking told me that he didnt even show up regularly at training. Genetics literally set the boundaries of what your life can realistically become and I came to terms with that.
Then the second curse showed up.
After one failed attempt where I took Dimenhydrinate and drank some alcoholic drink I landed in the hospital because I had a convulsion and my mother called the ambulance. After that I had constant headaches, then moments where my vision would blur or something felt wrong. I assumed it was stress or just another problem that would disappear after a few hours/days. But they didn't stop so I decided to book an appointment with my doc after some bloodwork and yada yada me going to a neurologist and allat the scans came back. Glioblastoma. I didn't tell my parents because they would 100% force me into treatment but I want to use this to finally die. This have been some bad 19 years of living, I am glad it came to an end.
There’s something almost absurd about the symmetry of it. The first curse was social: a life defined by isolation and failure to connect. The second one is biological: the body itself shutting down. The first made life feel closed off; the second ends it altogether. It's almost poetic.
This is the kind of raw confrontation with existence that people like Camus described. He saw the absurd as born from the confrontation between our human need for meaning and "the unreasonable silence of the world". The secure and familiar world breaks apart and collapses, and we are forced to confront the question of existence.
People like to talk about overcoming adversity, about discipline and self-improvement. But there are limits to that idea. You can't grind your way out of your own brain trying to kill you. Willpower doesn't override biology. The same randomness that shaped the first half of my life is shaping the end of it too. Some people win the lottery of genetics and circumstance. Others don't. Some of us draw badly twice. Nietzsche diagnosed this long ago, recognizing the crisis that comes when we see there is "no overarching reason, order, or purpose to our existence, that it is all fundamentally meaningless and absurd". I got that lesson twice over. First, my social existence was proven meaningless. Now, my biological existence follows suit.
Society sells you a lie. It sells you the lie of "the mass man," as Ortega y Gasset put it, where everybody "feels just like everybody else and is nevertheless not concerned about it". It sells you a script that if you just follow the steps, work hard, and think positive, you'll get the life you're promised. But that script is a simulation. It's a hyperreal construct that has nothing to do with the brutal mechanics of reality. My life is proof of that. I tried to participate in the simulation. I went to the wrestling practices, I tried to learn the social cues. But the underlying code of my existence was incompatible with the program. The first curse was realizing I was locked out of the social simulation. The second curse is the hardware itself failing.
Camus called suicide the "one truly serious philosophical problem" because it's a response to the absurd. He argued that suicide is an admission of defeat, a failure to confront the absurd head-on. He insisted on rebellion, on saying "YES" to life even in its meaninglessness. But what Camus didn't fully account for, I think, is the absurdity of a terminal diagnosis. It's not just a metaphysical confrontation; it's a physical one. The world isn't just silent, it's actively crushing you. My choice to reject treatment and embrace this end isn't a failure to confront the absurd. It's the ultimate confrontation. It's accepting the terms of the second curse without flinching. It's the final act of freedom in a life defined by its absence. Freedom from the lie that I could have ever been anything other than what I was, and freedom from the painful extension of a life that was fundamentally flawed from the start.
At this point there isn't much anger left. Mostly just the recognition that this is how the cards fell. The first curse was a life that never really opened up. The second one closes it.
I am finally free.
