Losing all hope was freedom.

LEADER: Find a partner.

JACK: The big moosie, his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. Knees together, invisible steps.
He pancaked down on top of me.

BOB: Two grown kids ... and they won't return my calls.

JACK:
Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one.
Then, I was lost in oblivion -- dark and silent and complete.
This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.
Babies don't sleep this well. I became addicted.
I felt more alive than I've ever felt.
If I didn't say anything, people assumed the worst. 
They cried harder. I cried harder. I wasn't really dying.
I wasn't host to cancer or parasites; no, I was the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around.
Every evening I died and every evening I was born. Resurrected.
Bob loved me because he thought my testicles were removed, too.
Being there, my face against his tits, getting ready to cry -- this was my vacation.

The Fight Club (1999) by David Fincher