43 years old and no life.

I stand on the precipice of a year without alcohol, a quiet rebellion against my former self. In these 365 days of sobriety, I can count on my fingers the rare occasions I’ve ventured beyond my door—a self-imposed exile, born from the shadows of Asperger’s and the suffocating grip of severe anxiety. I am friendless. My sole confidant is the glow of my gaming computer, a cold and silent companion that reflects my isolation, a mirror to my hollow existence. Pathetic, I tell myself, though the word barely scratches the surface.

Alcohol was a cruel lover but a necessary one. It demanded I step into the world—to buy the bottle, to exchange hollow words with fellow drunks, to pretend for fleeting moments that I belonged somewhere. It gave me false warmth, a counterfeit escape, until it betrayed me, as all false comforts do.

Now I survive, not thrive, on the crumbs of online work, cobbling together meager wages that keep me tethered to this world but never truly living in it. I am not suicidal, though I often wonder why. Atheism strips away the comfort of meaning, leaving me adrift in a universe indifferent to my existence. At 43, the weight of my own thoughts feels heavier than the years themselves. Existential dread and nihilism are constant companions, whispering truths too dark to ignore.

I made a promise—never again would I seek solace in the bottle. And I have kept it, though it feels less like triumph and more like trudging through a barren wasteland, parched and aimless. What lies ahead? I haven’t the faintest idea.

I am drowning in depression, sinking beneath the weight of obesity and self-loathing. My reflection is a stranger, a reminder of how far I’ve fallen. The world outside moves on, oblivious to my existence, while I am trapped in this fragile shell of a life, wondering if I have the strength to rebuild—or if the ruins are all I’ll ever know.