I am so depressed right now that it is hard to even hope. I’ve gotten to the point of considering suicide again: not the impulsive ill-considered methods, but the highly-lethal premeditated methods that succeed. In some ways I want to tell everyone I love how poorly I am doing; to say, “Please spend time with me. When I am alone I want to die!” I am afraid though, if I tell the truth my suicide will be prevented. I’ve not yet written the last chapter of my life and may yet choose not to, but I don’t want that choice taken from me. They’ve expanded the powers of the Mental Health Act and that frightens me. I do not want my civil liberties, my very freedom taken away from me in the name of my own good. I know that the biggest changes are needed in my lifestyle. My diet cannot be healthy. My schedule is abysmal. My social contact is infrequent. My exercise is close to nonexistent. My activities are unsatisfying and few in number. I doubt anybody could be happy living my life. I need others to prod me to do the thing that are good for me and that is utterly pathetic. I am not where I should be and I am not who I should be and that is all my fault. I am gifted intellectually, emotionally and physically. I am smart, passionate and beautiful. I should be excelling, but instead I am failing. I look at friends and family in their 20s and see everything I am not: in love, travelling, in challenging studies, in satisfying work, loving what they are doing. There is something to be said for being welcomed and appreciated by your clients, but that is not the same as loving what I am doing. I think the problem is the nature of the clients I work with as opposed to the nature of the work. I have no doubt that I am meant to be in the helping profession, but working with the developmentally delayed is not where I want to be. I would rather work with the mentally ill and/or the traumatized. It’s an area where I could make a difference, where I would want to make a difference. I wish I cure the worst parts of mental illness, the parts that lead to suicide or rob one of the ability to function at a meaningful level. If I could take away the suicidal ideation and the loss of desire or pleasure in activities, I am not sure I would choose to give away the abnormal range of mood. Keeping it within the cyclothymic limits and given periods of stability, it allows me to see the world in a unique way. I would, however, do away with the child abuse, bullying and ostracism. There is enough natural trauma in the world that we have no need of the deliberate man-made kind. It’s interesting that when depressed I can’t help but philosophize. Perhaps it isn’t so surprising. “To be or not to be?” is about the biggest question of philosophy there is, to quote the immortal bard and paraphrase Camus. I wonder if those that don’t experience depression ever examine life so deeply, though I suppose those that don’t examine it never find it not worth living. The passion and drive of mania is so so wonderful as well. Though I suppose if it lasted longer than a week and became a true manic episode it would be problematic. There are problems with it as it is: disrupting my sleep schedule, emptying my bank account, committing me to tasks I can’t complete and there was that one night stand. Feeling like I can accomplish anything for any length of time could lead to me believing it: the definition of psychosis. Can I make my desires a reality? Is it even possible? Something tells me it can’t be done. Is it the depression itself, the scars of my childhood trauma or even the scars of my adult failure? Are they truly scars, healed over; or are they festering wounds infecting my mind. Some things are healed. I know that, but one wound is all it takes to start a deadly infection. I should call my friends, even if I tell them nothing of my current despair. I remember being told than man was a social animal and being asked if I thought that the lack of social contact that causes failure to thrive in infants was more healthy for adults. There was also the question of if I friend was feeling/thinking what I am, would I want them to reach out to me and how would I feel if they didn’t. Lack of social contact is hurting me immensely and if a friend was feeling/thinking what I am, I would worry about their safety. Everything I know about psychology and suicidology says I am at risk, perhaps not as much as if the deadline was today, but enough. It’s dangerous making your life contingent of your mood improving. I would understand if they didn’t reach out though. Seventy-five percent of people who commit suicide deny intent. It makes complete sense when you realize how society responds: loss of freedom. I understand criminal incarceration and medical quarantine. They are designed to protect society from dangerous people and diseases. What does civil commitment protect people from: dangerous ideas? The idea that maybe, just maybe, life isn’t worth living for some.