I posted this on my Facebook feed, and I'll expand on it a bit here.

I spent 15 minutes after my dentist appointment last night sitting in my
car trying to process this.

You may or may not be aware that I struggle with a mixture of depression,
anxiety, and ADHD and have for the vast majority of my life. A combination
of medications and therapy have helped me over the years to manage things,
and some days/weeks/months are better than others. Most if not all of the
close friends in my life can vouch for the fact that I struggle with my
self-worth on a frequent basis, to the point where my brain often makes a
very logical argument that I should end my life. And being a very logical
person in general, it makes sense: if I can put together a case that shows
my life is without value or meaning, shit, it's gotta be true. I've lived
with suicidal ideation (thinking about killing yourself) for a very long
time. That said, I've never tried it, and only once even tried to try it*,
over 16 years ago (it's an indescribable explanation of what's going on
your mind when you have about 45 pills in one hand and one part of you is
trying to lift your arm and the other part is refusing to do so).

So why have I never made the leap from ideation (I should kill myself) to
intent (I'm going to kill myself)? It's been almost 17 years now since
someone I truly cared for killed herself, and as I told someone the other
day, it's really one of only about three things in my life I wonder what
would've happened had I done certain things differently (I will not get
into those details). It took me nine years of therapy (amongst other
issues) to finally wrap my brain around her death and my relationship with
her and a lot of other things related to that event. But the one perverse
gift Beth gave me was the realization that killing yourself results in so
much pain to others that to be the cause of that is something I could never
do to another person.

At first, it was my mom. For the last 10 or so years, it's been my niece.
She'll hold that position for a couple years longer, and then my son will
take it the rest of the way. It's the person who, in my truly darkest
hours, when that safety fuse is straining, I think about being told I
killed myself. And it works, for me. It may not work for another person.

You might be thinking, "Well, shit, then don't do it." But therein lies the
rub. Mental disorders (and thanks, PG: I need to start using that term
instead of "mental illness") are insidious because they're outstanding at
seducing people into believing things about themselves that no other human
being on the planet ever would. And it truly is impossible to really
describe to those who haven't lived it what it's like: to be able to take
someone telling you that you're a wonderful human being and people care
about you, admire you, support you, and love you and disregard it because
of some reason that is so irrational as to be utterly laughable if you
weren't that person.

I'm no professional (though I've paid enough to enough of them that I feel
I should earn some sort of honorary status in those ranks), but I can tell
you this: depression is a bitch, and, mixed with other things, it can take
you to places no sane person would think is possible. That's probably why
they call it insanity.

I fear I've gone too long and too deep in the wrong place, so my apologies.

* This phrasing is blatantly stolen from Bart Simpson in "The Canine
Mutiny", after Lisa tells him to "[j]ust promise not to freak out the blind
man" in trying to get Santa's Little Helper Back. "I can't promise I'll
try," Bart replies. "But I'll try to try."

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