I'm not suicidal. I don't plot my death. I suppose I haven't reached that point — thankfully. I've seen the pain that suicide causes loved ones left behind. I could never do that to my family. But in a twisted mindset that I don't fully understand, I do have a certain empathy for those that have been so desperate for relief, they chose to take matters in their own hands and end it once and for all.
I once saw snippets of a documentary where the film makers set up several cameras 24/7 focused on the Golden Gate Bridge. The filming lasted an entire year. In that year they documented two dozen suicide jumps and several attempts. I couldn't watch the whole thing. For some reason though I had a visceral understanding of why these people made that final choice of their lives.
Sometimes I experience fleeting thoughts of what the end could be like, often times wishing my life would be cut short so as to be spared any more heartache. Would I feel warmth and relief? Would there be the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel? Would I be punished eternally for committing the sin of suicide? What would people say about me? Would it really matter in the Grand Scheme?
As I continue to tailspin, I have fears of what this continued hell will do to me in the long-term. The toll it takes can easily make you do things you'd never think of doing because of desperation. Of late, I've had fleeting realizations that I'm losing my will to live. This does not mean I'm suicidal. I'm just having a great deal of trouble caring anymore. I hope I won't reach a point where I'll have no option left but to face that awful, final choice.
Today my psychiatrist told me she has never in her career been unsuccessful in treating her patients for depression. As she said this she shook her head slightly.
I may have stumped her. Nothing to be proud of.