Chapter 3: Why now?

Why now, at sixty, when most men are settling into the twilight of their lives, am I consumed by the urge to obliterate my current self? I’ve asked myself this countless times, lying awake at night, feeling the weight of my life pressing down like a stone. The truth is, there’s no simple answer.

Sixty feels final, like a point of no return. For decades, you believe there’s always tomorrow, but at sixty, the tomorrows start running out. You’re left with the cold reality of what you’ve done - and what you haven’t. I’ve been lucky in many ways, but luck isn’t the same as happiness. With each success, I felt something slipping away - a sense of purpose, a sense of self. By forty, I fantasized about disappearing. Back then, it was just a daydream, something I could brush aside. But as the years passed, that thought grew roots. By fifty, it had darkened into something insistent. I’d see stories of people who vanished and instead of sympathy, I felt envy. What must it be like to be free of everything?

One day, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the man staring back. I saw a stranger - an ageing, tired man who spent his life living up to other people’s expectations. And in that moment, the urge to escape became overwhelming.

Why now? Because I’ve realized this is my last chance to do something for myself. To reclaim whatever’s left of the man I used to be - or the man I could have been. If I don’t do this now, I never will. The thought of living out the rest of my days in quiet desperation, withering away in a life that feels like a cage - that’s the real danger. Not the unknown, not death, but the slow, creeping death of the soul that comes from living a life that isn’t yours.

Some might call it a midlife crisis, but that’s too reductive. This isn’t about recapturing youth or making up for lost time. It’s about survival, about finding something real before it’s too late.

I once had a wife and two kids. We lived in a house that was neither big nor small, in an ordinary neighborhood. From the outside, it was a life anyone would envy - a stable job, a loving family. But I never felt like I belonged in that life. My wife and I stopped talking about anything meaningful years ago, and the intimacy that once drew us together faded into routine. We drifted apart, living parallel lives under the same roof, pretending everything was fine because the alternative was too terrifying.

Then there were my children. I loved them, or at least I thought I did. But love is complicated. It’s about connecting on a deeper level, something I never did. I kept them at arm’s length, too afraid, too ashamed of what they might see. I was a distant figure in their lives, someone who provided but never really gave.

Looking back, I see a man playing a role, doing what he thought he had to do to be a good husband and father. But it was so far removed from who I really was. And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? I never knew who I was. I had an idea, a vague sense of a self that existed beneath the surface, but I never took the time to explore it. And so, I lived a life that felt like it belonged to someone else, someone I didn’t recognise in the mirror.

Why do we feel the need to leave a legacy? We strive for something that will last, something that will prove we mattered. But time erases everything. The universe moves on, indifferent to our existence. And yet, we continue to strive for something that will last. But for me, the idea of disappearing, of erasing myself completely, is far more appealing. If there’s no meaning, why not vanish, leave nothing behind, and let the universe continue its indifferent march toward oblivion?

I was loved as a child, at least I think I was. But when I look back, I remember an indifference from my father, a man more interested in his pursuits than in his son. My mother was often away, leaving me to fend for myself. Maybe that’s where it all started - this sense of being alone, of not mattering to anyone. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the idea of disappearing, of vanishing without a trace.

And of course, there was my younger brother. When I think of my brother, I suppose there was some resentment. My parents outwardly spoke out against favouritism, but the sensitive boy that I was, I’m pretty sure he won attention, and he was loved. I trained myself to think it didn’t matter but in my memories I was left in the background, unnoticed and unimportant. Then one awful day he drowned in that inflatable pool - I was supposed to be watching him but got distracted by a game I was playing. My parents, they never blamed me, not directly, but I knew they wondered. So did I. And perhaps since then I suppose I have had a compulsion. Born from a past I’ve spent my entire life trying to bury

So, why now? Here I am, at sixty, standing on the precipice of something new, something terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I’ve spent my life running from myself, but now I’m ready to face it, to confront the void and see what’s on the other side. Maybe it’s just more emptiness. But maybe, just maybe, there’s something else, something worth finding. And if not, if all that awaits me is oblivion, then so be it. At least I’ll go out on my terms, leaving nothing behind, just as I’ve always wanted.

That’s why now. Because I’m finally ready to live.