[Insert usual "I do not condone suicide" message here. I know I'm a hypocrite. But as much as I talk of death, I do not want to see anyone else so far gone that suicide is the only answer. I want to see others get help, even if I can't.]

Well, my sis couldn't make it today. Not because she was sick, but because the plane had mechanical problems. I'm glad she didn't take off on that plane. o.O But she couldn't get another flight today... so we're picking her up tomorrow, at the same time.

I'm realizing that I find it a little bit lonely, talking about my own problems. I think I scare people off, or they don't know what to say. I wish sometimes that other people could talk to me the way I talk to them when they're upset. I mean, I got plenty of helpful comments when the immigration stuff was happening. But when I feel the way I do now, where I feel this utter despair at the state of my life and the worthlessness of my being... people just... clam up.

I don't really blame them... I mean... what do you say? It's hard to talk to a depressed person. That's why, when I know other depressed people, I try really hard to talk to them, even if I'm not sure I can help. I don't want them to feel lonely, too.

It's hard to get a person thinking positively when they're in the middle of a depressive episode, but I understand what hurts them so much. I understand how helpless one can feel to it: the feeling that everything you do is going wrong and you can't handle the stress and self-loathing, the siren's call of suicide. My desire for the latter has grown very much as my months of agoraphobia and hermitism have stretched on to years, as the extent of my socializing has become what I type on the screen, as I find myself completely useless in making myself a productive member of society -- if not by taking a job (since it's still illegal for me to work in Canada), then at least helping around with chores and errands.

My suicidal ideation is less vague nowadays. I know what methods I'd prefer to use. I'm just stumped on acquiring them, because my anxiety makes me so homebound, and -- as I've mentioned before -- my husband would likely confiscate anything he found in the apartment that I could use to kill myself with. I'm not crude, though. I wouldn't do it with knives. I would go for something truly lethal, with a high percentage of certainty, as I've said before. I'm not going to end up living as a cripple. If I go, I'm going all the way.

But I don't know I have the courage to do it, still. Right now my thoughts remain focused on getting to the stage where I can acquire the means. Something about that feels... productive, in a twisted sort of way. See, I'm taking steps on doing something about my life! Except the "doing something about it" is getting rid of myself so I don't have to be troubling anyone by being a deadbeat who can't even do her own chores, spends her time working on useless things that won't make money, and rambles about how shitty her life is without actually changing it.

"So just change it!" is what people will say. "Do something to improve the quality of your life, if you don't like it!" Yeah... well... what if you just really can't? I can't explain why. The only explanation I have is "I have depression." But it starts looking like a cop-out for everything I do wrong. Do I really have it? Or am I just lazy and worthless? It's just like my college years all over again -- when I was going to college because it was "the right thing to do" or "the only thing to do", rather than because I wanted it. I'd reach these points where I'd just find myself absolutely unable to motivate myself to work on my assignments. I remember crying to my boyfriend at the time on the phone about it. "I just can't do it. I just can't make myself do it." I did the same with Jon many years later. "I know I have to finish my work but I just can't do it."

Even the doctor who was prescribing me antidepressants (he was a MD, and not my therapist -- I never really liked him much) eventually told me that pills were just not going to make me go to class. I wished so much that they would. I doubled my dosage because of it. I thought, "if depression is just a chemical imbalance then this will be enough to make me motivated to finish my degree." But it didn't actually help. Drugs by themselves just don't help.

So I left home. And here I am. 3 years and I still haven't been able to renew my therapy. Waiting and waiting just for that call so I can START getting my health care card. Maybe the Canadian system isn't as good as I thought it was. Maybe it'll just be delay after delay just so I can talk to a mental health professional. Maybe it'll be too late by the time I get my card, and I'll already be gone.

The funny thing is, I feel very safe talking about suicide. I don't think anyone besides my husband believes I would do it. And if they did, they probably don't think they can stop me. And they are probably right. I am the kind of person who, once I make a final decision about something, I follow through with it. Decisive until the end. I don't want anyone saying about me that I'm some pathetic person looking for a "cry for help." No, sorry, the "cry for help" part isn't going to happen with me cutting patterns into my wrists. If anything, my pride and my perfectionism will ensure that I die with as much certainty as I am able to provide. I will even ensure beforehand to do everything necessary. I will write my will, and I will leave very detailed reasons behind, in multiple places, for why I have killed myself. I will tell people to watch my husband closely because he will likely try to follow me in death. In fact, if I can time it right I'd call 911 right before I do it, so when my husband finds me the cops will already be here -- and it will force me to actually follow through to the end, or risk having warned the police / paramedics for nothing.

There will be one, and only one time. That is what I am sure about, when I think about my suicide plans. I'd come up with more than one means of death so I can ensure my 100%. If I survive it... well it will either be an act of God, or I fucked it up and it will be even harder to do, because I'm damn sure that I'll be institutionalized. And that'd just make me want to finish the job. I am not going to make people pay useless money for my continued existence.

As scary as this all sounds, though, I've not decided on suicide yet. If I had, I wouldn't be writing about it. For now, I just think about it. A LOT. Nothing would satisfy me more than my own end, I think. Then my mind gets caught in a loop: well, if I die, I won't be able to enjoy being satisfied by it. So what's the point? Then I think about people I know who have tried or wanted to die, and the things I've told them -- don't do it, please don't do it. There are reasons left to live. I understand your pain but what you want is an end of suffering, not an end to your life. Just keep talking... keep talking and don't pick up the knife / pills / gun.

Such a hypocrite I am. I want others to live and be happy and find meaning in their existence, but I want myself to die the worthless piece of shit I am. My mind tells me that I'm just an exception to the rule. I care about everyone else, even my enemies, more than myself. But the rational side of me goes "Sorry, but that makes no sense. You're human just like all the rest. Your depression is misleading you." And then I can't think about suicide again for a while.

I realize that the only way I will ever follow through with suicide is when my desperation to put an end to my suffering overwhelms my ability to make rational thoughts or think about the consequences. And I think I am getting closer to that point. It's slow. I've creeped up to it over the years. But it's closer now. I can envision myself doing it. But that little voice of reason still holds on, somehow, and so does my ability to care for others. I am certain my death would lead to the death of at least one other person -- and if not that, I'd be the cause of a great deal of misery on my behalf. If I could just erase the memory of me from everyone's minds, maybe it'd be easier. Then all I'd have to face is the great unknown: the fear of not knowing what comes after death.

But again, that's not a possibility. Common sense has won, and I live to suffer another day. Besides... I'd still like to hang around for my sister's visit. And maybe I'd like to stay around and play Wardragon and Panoply and etc., run Emberdays a little more, maybe even see my Ex2 game happen. I could put it off a little bit longer. I don't have the means yet, anyway, so even if I wanted to die right now, I wouldn't just go and do it. I'm not going to kill myself on a whim. It will be planned and it will be calculated with multiple possibilities in mind.

Anyway, looks like I may end up playing some PSU, so at least I'll be distracted for the moment. Tomorrow is another day. I hope (yup, I still have that old dusty "hope" thing lying around here somewhere) that it is a better one than today.