The Self-Inflicted, Miserable and Humorous Suffering of a Soldier

I have been posting about my never-ending struggles in the U.S. for an year. These are very serious in nature and if taken extremely would depress people including my own self. No one deserves to live like this even the war-torn Gazans or the war-ravaged Ukrainians. The humanitarian crisis I am facing is far worse than these two nations enduring. So much so that it occurs to me that these wars continue ‘peacefully’ when there is a bigger person suffering far worse than them. Hence, I strictly subscribe to the take that my life has taken extreme human right violations in the greatest place on earth where this shouldn’t have happen at all. I will give one simple example – I work on the 300% brain efficiency. Why do I need to analyze so much, think so much and be at war with myself daily. This is where I end up living and this is just one metric. A small infant baby that is me should not be subjected to so much struggle without proper compensation and gratitude. This is similar to the struggles of a street-smart dog when asked to render the duties of President of United States. This is not literal, figurative or similar but completely actual and factual. Read with caution and leave with disdain about the greatest irony that the person serving the nation with all his might has been paid almost nothing. There will be a cost to service which itself consumes the person. For instance, the person doesn’t have a car, cannot afford uber rides everyday and reduced to walking on roads to work and serve. There is no more public embarassment and open shame than this but who cares. Can a CEO of a company discharge his duties with a nothing salary, can a leader of a nation work for a nation without any support system – including funds, means of transport etc. These are basics for a dignified life required to render the duties and not luxuries. More horrible, the bicycle which I use for commute has been stolen last two times leaving me with nothing. I don’t know what is in the air and what everyone is upto – to see me naked in the public? This will be on you, Sir for subjecting a small, infant and common person to so much suffering and feats beyond his greatest stretch.

I can endure hard work but not suffering which has come to the point of life-threatening. It has become a point of life and death everyday and this is not an exaggeration. How long can I sustain, exist and survive the fight. Life should never be risky every week and calling it a day after surviving. When does it come to these lowest pathetic levels. You can live in constant tension and anxiety about what I might do but also bother about how I am doing it and the struggles below the water like an injured duck may endure to stay afloat. Then you will become a human with empathy. Don’t say this is all taken care with assurance and looked into. Horrible things have already happen. For instance, for all that is happening some say it all affects me, my wife and those in the close quarters alone. You can live as it may please with everything good and we will be the one suffering and taking the cost. This is already ongoing and no one bothers to take stock of reality for living is convenient with eyes closed. For all the events of ‘epic reality’ which everyone likes to see, there is a cost one has to pay. These come with a cost and one has to pay and who will pay. One cannot evade for long but live in a constant fear about what ill tomorrow will bring. This reduced to ‘please, no, please no’ to calm down but I don’t see a respite. Why I see no respite – this is how much the severity of life came down upon me to pay my bills. Such a pathetic misery. When I complain, there is a meaning behind it and not out of fun. But this has fallen on deaf ears for over a year. Moreover, people think I am alright and blackmailing them. What a travesty of truth. Otherwise, I would have fared much better financially which would have open few other options. Financial health will allow me to take a much needed break to calm things and freeze a bit. Just beacuse I am writing this blog regularly doesn’t mean everything is all right and for everyone to cry over. Just because I am working in a job doesn’t mean everything is all right and for everyone to cry over. I am giving up a lot to serve on these two fronts. Living in green doesn’t mean everything is great but my never ending struggle to keep myself green and inspire. 

But, and a big but, when things fail to improve even after I vent out my helplessness and frustration a number of times, I think the blame falls on me. I am the actor and should not blame the audience for my life. I am the writer of my own destiny and this is all I had written for myself over the years. I suffer because of my ‘karma’ and all I can seek is ‘help’ from one and all. Moreover, the suffering is ‘self-inflicted’ and unless I change my own self, things might not improve. When things get depressing and out of control, one might need to see a bit of humor to live along. This humor is also one of the perspectives which cannot be ignored. For instance, when one strike my ramble as funny, trivial and irrelevant it gives me hope. Hope because it is not all too serious and I only inflate and make it ‘look’ serious. This humor angle is definitely something which we can fall back upon in times of manufactured depression. I definitely see one and all are captured in the air of this ‘made up’ seriousness which it might not be the case. For the rest of the post,I post on the self-inflicted wounds of suffering which looks funny when aggregated. 

Among the many forms of human suffering, one of the most puzzling is the pain we inflict on ourselves. It’s pretty straightforward to understand the hurt caused by outside forces—things like poverty, natural disasters, wars, oppression, and illness. These challenges come at us from the outside, leaving us with little choice but to endure. But what’s even stranger, and perhaps more tragic, is the suffering that people actively choose, creating complex routines of torment for themselves, even when paths to a more manageable, bearable life are wide open.  

Take, for instance, the life of a man who puts himself through a grueling schedule, constantly chasing goals and engaging in a never-ending struggle for recognition in a society that often seems indifferent. His life is a whirlwind of debt, overwork, obsessive writing, and sheer exhaustion. He’s not forced into this by some external oppressor. Instead, he makes this choice, even though it’s shrouded in a psychological haze that makes it feel like there’s no other option. Let us delve into the nuances of such a life: exploring why someone would create a situation that feels like a constant battle, why suffering becomes intertwined with their sense of self, and why, despite the existence of better alternatives, a fulfilling life never seems to be on the table. 

The man's daily routine is as grueling as it is predictable. Debt looms over him like an unshakeable shadow. Instead of finding relief through cutting back or simplifying his life, he just keeps piling on more responsibilities. His day job fills his hours of sunlight, but when night falls, instead of taking a break, he dives into another job. The workplace isn’t forgiving; it demands focus, precision, and endurance. The monotony is relentless, leaving little room for spontaneity or relaxation.  

But as if juggling two jobs and the burden of debt weren’t enough, he adds yet another challenge: every week, without fail, he churns out two intense blog posts. These aren’t just casual diary entries thrown together; they’re demanding, thought-provoking, and often controversial pieces that take a toll on his energy, health, and sometimes even his reputation. They come with “serious consequences”—like strained relationships, online conflicts, or professional fallout. Yet, he never stops.  

His schedule feels like a battlefield. Day in and day out, week after week, he trudges through it like a soldier stuck in an endless campaign. But unlike soldiers, he has no commander, no general, and no enemy to fight against. He is both the drill sergeant and the foot soldier, both the one who punishes and the one who suffers. 

While society may overlook his sacrifices, he imagines an invisible audience, always watching, judging, perhaps even admiring him. He sees himself as a heroic figure—a modern-day ascetic, a writer who pours his soul into his words, a worker who never backs down. His suffering is the price he pays for a sense of purpose.  

Yet, this quest for heroism carries a bitter irony: it turns tools meant for growth into instruments of self-punishment. Writing, which could have been a source of freedom, becomes a whip that lashes at his own back. Work, which might have been a way to make a living, turns into chains. Even debt, rather than being resolved, is romanticized as part of his battlefield. The heroic narrative consumes everything. 

The centerpiece of his torment is his compulsion to publish. Two blogposts a week—rigid, immovable, self-enforced. In a healthier frame, writing could be joyous, a means of expression, a gift shared with others. But under compulsion, it turns poisonous. 

These are not gentle reflections, but “severe blogposts”—perhaps critiques of politics, explorations of moral dilemmas, or confessions of personal torment. Each post extracts from him energy he does not have, time he cannot spare, and leaves behind controversy or backlash that further depletes him. 

Why continue? Because to stop would be, in his eyes, to betray his own myth. Silence would equal surrender. Moderation would look like cowardice. He is caught in a paradox where the very act that drains him is also the only thing that sustains his identity. To quit writing would be to dissolve into invisibility, and invisibility is more frightening to him than suffering. 

Liberation lies in humor itself. If he could see the absurdity of his routine—the pointless deadlines, the imaginary audience, the dramatized debt—he might chuckle, put down the pen for a week, and take a nap. That would be the true heroic act: the bravery to live without an epic soundtrack, without misery as costume. 

But therein lies the ultimate punchline: the thing he fears most is not debt or exhaustion, but ordinariness. To live quietly, without theater, feels like death to him. And so, like a clown in a circus no one bought tickets to, he juggles jobs, deadlines, and suffering, convinced the spotlight is on him. 

In the end, his life is less a tragedy than a farce. He has transformed existence into a slapstick performance of unnecessary agony. He could live sensibly, but he prefers to star in his own drama of heroic suffering. Nobody forces him into this circus. Nobody applauds particularly loudly. Yet he carries on, because to him, pain is proof of purpose. 

His story teaches us a strange lesson: that the most ridiculous suffering is the kind we proudly inflict on ourselves, mistaking it for greatness. And perhaps the only cure is laughter—the recognition that tying your own shoelaces together is not an act of bravery but of comedy. How much ever one might laugh, the most intelligent fails to act and see it as laugh-worthy. Remember, this is the clown show to act as buffer and bring hope for all the seriousness and hopelessness we may portray otherwise.