10 years ago I was a high school senior on the verge of suicide. I had no friends. I hadn't had friends since early elementary school. I spoke only when spoken to, and then only in a sort of automatic, thoughtless way. "How are you?" (Vacant Grin) "Fine, how are you?". I was on the verge of ending my life. I had the gun to my head. I was prepared to pull the trigger and paint my dad's walls with brains. The thought of him finding me and carrying that image to the grave filled me with a joy I hadn't felt since I was a toddler. It still does. I didn't pull that trigger. I didn't pull it because I had a little sister, and I didn't want her to suffer the trauma of losing me. As for the rest of the family, I sincerely did not care about their suffering. If my sister had not been born I would have pulled that trigger. No doubt about it. In the ten years that followed I made several attempts at fixing my life. Each ended in failure. To this day I have no friends. I have never been in love or had a relationship. I do not speak except in brusque response. I cannot say that not killing myself was the right decision. Even if I'm cured tomorrow and life is suddenly just peachy, that's still 10+ years of hell. Nothing is worth that. Nothing. My sister is grown up now. She's in a better position to deal with my loss. I've undergone years and years of therapy. I've taken multiple anti-depressants. I have made a sincere attempt to overcome depression. I can't. Even if I could beat this depression, I cannot begin to deal with people. I don't want to be around them. I don't want to communicate. I don't want to love. I want sex, and only because it is a basic human need. In my attempts at fixing life I have forced myself to interact with people, I have forced myself to try to fit in and make friends. These attempts have met with repeated failure. Time and time again. Failure after failure. People dislike me. Decades of depression make it nearly impossible to smile or laugh. I keep the darkness inside. I try to present a cheery, upbeat persona. I don't understand it, but people do not want anything to do with me. They won't even give me a chance. Whatever the problem is, I do not know what it is, and I do not believe I can change it. I am what I am, and what I am is disliked tremendously. Psychologists tell me there are other people just like me. Bullshit. This darkness runs deeper. Deeper than I can articulate. Deeper than I can comprehend. There was hope for me when I was a child. There is no hope for me now. When I'm told that communicating is a cry for help it drives me into a rage. NO! Communication is NOT a cry for help. Communication is natural, particularly when embarking on something that is truly terrifying, lonely, and painful. If I decide to kill myself it will not be an attempt or a cry for help. I will kill myself. In a few hours I'm going to see a new psychologist. More time and more money wasted. I won't discuss suicide with him. Why? Because I cannot trust him. What if he decides to have me committed in a hospital? This would be a tragedy. Not only would I be forced to kill myself prematurely, I may have to kill others to defend my right to die. That isn't something I want to have to do, but it is something I'm willing to do. Psychologists admit it themselves. Depression cannot always be cured. It's rare, yes, but what happens to those who cannot be cured? Are we meant to suffer through decade after decade? I realize there are people who would suffer at my loss. What about my suffering? I know what it feels like to lose someone, and I know that time heals those wounds. Time does not heal the pain inside me. With time the pain only grows worse. This is a sick society we live in. Not all of us are capable of assimilating, of deluding ourselves. Why can't I be allowed to die humanely and with dignity? Why force me to take my life in a painful, messy way? What purpose does that serve?