I don't know how suicidal I am. What I do know is that I don't want to live. The big question is whether or not I'm capable of taking action in the matter. In the past I've always ended up making compromises with myself: don't cut your wrists, simply give it go elsewhere on your arm to see what it feels like, to determine if you can do it or not, to know how much pressure there's got to be, simply to see if the knife isn't too blunt. See if you can do it, using a paper bag over your head and withdraw at the last moment. Put the decision to faith, crossing the road without looking. Simply keep your options open. Sometimes the idea is so intense that it makes me cry. Shortly after that, it all seems so absurd it's hilarious. I don't really know how it came to be like this. I'm a 23-year old girl, graduated magna cum laude from university last year, having ended up 3rd in the interuniversity writing-competition and so on. My life, up until a year ago, when this madness reached its peak, went quite good for me. Yet somehow, my successes are what threw me into this pit of darkness, this little corner of hell, most of all. They built up all these expectations, a whole myth around my person which I knew I couldn't live up to. I felt like I failed bitterly at everything I did, especially the social situations. People expected me to be interesting, talkative, opinionated etc. I felt like none of those. All this to indicate that it wasn't merely the end of my studies that left me here. It had started earlier than that, way earlier. Yet graduation really set this depression, or whatever it is, off. I realised that after years of masterly deceit, of having fooled people into thinking I was intelligent, creative, inventive etc. I was about to be exposed as the fraud I was. You see, while studying, there are coping-mechanisms, attitudes that can be attained to make you successful at university whithout actually being successful. In the real world, surely those were not going to work. At the same time, something else was happening. I felt that I was losing my sanity, if it ever had been there. I knew that my thought-patterns were at the very least unusual. I didn't know how much longer I could keep up this face of normality. The gap between me and the rest of the world seemed to grow wider and wider. I reached the conclusion that suicide was the only sensible thing left for me to do, yet I felt that I owned it to myself to first explore all options. There was a major one left: going to find psychological assistance. I didn't really think psychologists could help me, but if they could, for instance by taking a pill a day, how very ironic my suicide wouldn't have been? I've been in therapy for over a year now, and yesterday quit going to my psychologist. They discovered that I had an autistic way of thinking, that I suffered from what is called aspergers syndrome. So I had been right, something was unusual about my way of thinking. There was a reason why communication failed again and again. Yet, what is in a name? For a year now, I've been believing that I could be helped. I've meekly been going to private counseling, taken different kinds of drugs (ranging from anti-depressants to anti-psychotics). And then decided that a life without feeling and desires was hardly worth living more than life with the severe ups and downs I had been living previously. Two weeks ago I stopped taking the drugs. They did not work for me. The highs, after all, were what had brought me this far in life, I cannot do without. So here I am, left at the same point I was a year ago, after therapy and after drugs. I think of dying all the time, though the people around me don't know it, and if I tell them about it, they either don't believe it or take on this attitude of superiority looking down on me like I am the lowest of low things walking this earth. I keep going over suicide techniques in my head, unable to decide which one fits me best. I do not get my farewell-notes written properly. I cannot believe I am thinking what I am thinking and am afraid of the feeling of absurdity which, contradictory enough, makes this all so very realistic. I want to die, but I am afraid of the dying-part of it. I'm confused, and above all, so very alone.