In a play I once saw, one of the characters says: " Most people are too cowardly to help themselves. People say 'If I ever become unemployed, I will kill myself.' They become unemployed but they don't do it. Then they say: 'If I am ever homeless, I will just kill myself.' They lose their homes but they don't do it. Then they say: 'I would rather die than be disabled.' One morning their legs are frozen as they sleep in their cardboard box and have to be amputated. But still they do not kill themselves. And so there they are: a stump of a body with just arms, moving around on a little wheeled platform, toothless, covered in sores, begging for pennies. The triumph of life over suicide." I am like that, NOT because I am poor (I am financially well off, really) but because I drag my aging corpse from day to day in a world of depression and anxiety which only gets worse month by month. I have the plan and the means to kill myself, but I am a big coward who does not have the courage to do it. I should have liberated myself years ago. Nothing interests me but death. I get no joy or pleasure out of anything. Lately there is a frightening development. My depression and anxiety used to get bad in the evening and nights. Every night I go to sleep pretending I have overdosed and that this is the blessed sleep from which I will never wake up. But I used to be almost normal in the morning. Now, I start to curse the fact that I am alive the minute I wake up. It is like a person who is tied to a stake and being tortured to death slowly. He is going to die anyway, but how he wishes he could end it right away. How he wishes he could just order his heart to stop. But the body is a mindless machine that keeps running as long as it can. The survival instinct, which is usually our friend and ally, suddenly becomes our worst enemy. All it would take is an act of courage and determination on my own part. I curse myself for a coward!