It Took Me Far Too Long To

Suicide Is A Particularly Awful Way To Die: The Mental Suffering Leading Up To It Is Usually Prolonged, Intense And Unpalliated. There Is No Morphine Equivalent To Ease The Acute Pain, And Death, Not Uncommonly, Is Violent And Grisly. The Suffering Of A Suicidal Is Private And Inexpressible, Leaving Family Members, Friends And Colleagues To Deal With An Almost Unfathomable Kind Of Loss, As Well As Guilt. Suicide Carries In Its Aftermath A Level Of Confusion And Devastation That Is, For The Most Part, Beyond Description.

Others Would Say To Me, 'it Is Only Temporary, It Will Pass, You Will Get Over It,' But Of Course They Had No Idea How I Felt, Although They Were Certain That They Did. Over And Over And Over I Would Say To Myself, If I Can't Feel, If I Can't Move, If I Can't Think, And I Can't Care, Then What Conceivable Point Is There In Living?

In Some Cases, Some People Do Get Depressed In The Middle Of Their Grief And They Really Need To Be Treated For Depression.

I Had Been Simply Treating Water, Settling On Surviving And Avoiding Pain Rather Than Being Actively Involved In Seeking Out Life.

No Pill Can Help Me Deal With The Problem Of Not Wanting To Take Pills; Likewise, No Amount Of Psychotherapy Alone Can Prevent My Manias And Depressions. I Need Both. It Is An Odd Thing, Owing Life To Pills, One's Own Quirks And Tenacities, And This Unique, Strange, And Ultimately Profound Relationship Called Psychotherapy