I want to find a reason to go on. I want to believe it gets better. But I can no longer believe that. My suicidal feelings used to be low-key, flaring up occasionally, less occasionally since I was on anti-depressants. I made two serious attempts on my life, one which I stopped before doing anything, one which I stopped before causing too much damage. But lately my suicidal thoughts have been the inevitable conclusions of my thought processes. Before, I could tell myself it was the disease talking, but I cannot do that anymore. I was abused as a child. Not physically, but psychologically. I was made to feel worthless, guilty for everything, and a vile and wretched thing as a result of ultra-religious upbringing. I now know that this is no longer true, but it set off depression. For many years I would not admit I had depression, which manifested itself as bouts of almost nihilistic self-destruction. I would quit jobs, walking off them without notice. I told myself this was because the jobs were terrible, which to be fair they were. I had a girlfriend who was nothing but supportive. I repaid this by cheating on her, again in almost nihilistic bouts of self-destruction. This hurt her, but she forgave me. Finally I got a job that was bringing in good money, and which suited my skills. I was networking well. I joined Toastmasters and was learning to have a good public image. My girlfriend and I were getting married. Then her grandfather died. When she was away tending to him, I broke off the wedding over the phone, and called in leave from work, leave that would last a year until my official resignation. If you are beginning to think I am an awful person, believe me, it is no more awful than I find myself. I made a few more attempts at having a job, before convincing myself that I was too "enlightened" to work for someone else. I began writing full-time, where before my writing had only been a hobby. Freelance work on commission brought in most of the rent. The rest was from my girlfriend, who came back to me. I think she knew I was sick, even when I was not willing to admit it. Freelancing worked well enough for a while, but I was withdrawing from society and from my friends. I finally had a chance to really make it, getting a big contract from a company I had worked for. I reneged on that, turning the project over to others. I justified this by saying that I needed to work on my own projects. After a year of doing that, my apartment was broken into, a gun was held to my head, and my money and my laptop (containing all my files) were taken. The trauma was too much for me, and I withdrew for half a year. At the end of that time, with my girlfriend's help, I was able to admit my own depression and seek therapy and medication. With the therapy, for a time things seemed to be going better. But this was only temporary. The incident with the break in was almost two years ago. I have been on medication for more than a year. In that time, I have not improved. I have gotten worse. I write in spurts now, and those spurts are coming fewer and farther between. I used to pride myself on my reason, participating in a lot of political activism and debate, but now I cannot maintain my composure and I lose my temper. I used to be an officer in Toastmasters, now I cannot bring myself to go to a meeting. I have grown fat, lazy, and slovenly. Merely grooming myself has become nearly impossible without help. I eat only because I have food stamps, and I have a roof over my head only because my girlfriend pays for it. I take antidepressents, but I am not getting better. I am getting worse. I disgust myself. I accomplish nothing. And the man I was, the man with ambition and creativity and, yes, I would even say genius, can no longer be found. I used to sit at a computer and write, and write, and write, the creativity flowing out of me. The companies who hired me as a freelance writer valued me as someone who turned around marvelous work in a very short time. If they gave me something to write paragraph descriptions on, I would have it in minutes. I once wrote 16,000 words in a weekend to meet a deadline another author had failed to meet. Now I am the one missing deadlines, and not even by a little. I simply fail to create. I fail to do anything valuable. I once peppered my rather nerdy tastes in entertainment with literary classics, works of history and philosophy. Now I watch cheap TV shows and cartoons, and play video games while my mind rots. I once wrote at least several times a week. Now the only writing I do is arguing on Facebook, and even these arguments have become less rational and more angry. My girlfriend tells me it is the disease, depression. And maybe it is. But all I know is I have become something I loathe. A useless waste of a man, a parasite on society, an asshole to the woman who loves me, and an embarrassment to whatever causes I stand for. And I find it much harder to convince myself that I shouldn't take a knife to my wrists, endure that relatively short period of pain, and then end it. Because I'm not getting better. I'm getting worse. And no matter how hard I try, no matter what positive thinking I try, no matter how I try to get a handle on my life with therapy, no matter what medications I take, I feel like I'm a puppet being controlled by the disease in my brain, and that I no longer have any control over anything I do. I need help, please. I need to know that somehow it will get better, and not just in platitudes. I need to know how to get better. Because for the last two years, it has only gotten worse, and I cannot keep living this life, a life where I am only a parasite on those I love and society, a life where I can take pride in nothing, but only feel revulsion at my own actions. I know what I do is wrong. I know when I turn on a movie or TV show or video game instead of writing that what I am doing is wrong. But I can't stop. We recently took in a kitten, both because it needed a home, and in the hope it would cheer me up. And I have lain in bed, knowing the kitten needs to be fed, hearing it mewl for its food, and been unable to even get up to feed it. And once, when I was playing a video game, it bit my elbow, and the pain made me so angry that I threw it to the floor. Luckily it was unhurt, but I am terrified that my rage would cause me to hurt it, or worse, my girlfriend. Please help. Please tell me something I've missed, something important that will turn this around. Because if there's not, I just can't keep doing this.