I find myself suffering through bouts of depression with frustrating regularity. Along with this deep-seeded depression lies the constant impulse to kill myself; something I first experienced at eleven and which still bothers me at 25. I do however, have a problem with finding like-minded sufferers. I write, and more importantly, am heavily invested in a creative culture where the principles of Romanticism, existentialism, and Absurdism call suicide forwards as a valid means of self-expression. As does the culture of writing. I regularly cut myself. I rarely spread to new cutting locations, choosing instead to cut over scarred flesh on both wrists and the crutches of my arm (where the Median Cubital and Cephalic veins are), but I'm not sad. As a writer of fiction I am influenced by the principles of story plotting in regards to my life; one such element is the knowledge that it's important to end a character's development at a certain point in order to preserve that character. What would happen to Hamlet were he not poisoned and dead by the time Fortinbras entered the palace? I ask myself if I should not also end my life as I do those I write about. Thus, I am culturally pushed to killing myself in addition to any reaction to emotional or physiological distress. I am a believer of Romanticism; one can find authenticity in life's emotions and the world can best be explored through emotion. I wallow in my feelings, both good and bad because they are the closest thing to pure creativity. By developing a high emotional IQ in the practice of writing, one is able to experience a multitude of life's themes, and the urge to make them manifest by death is too hard to resist! Under a great gloom, I experience tragedy. By killing myself in the midst of this great passion I make tragedy a real object in the world; it has value greater than my life. And as tragedy is made real so is it's opposite. I don't think anyone else would experience the joy of revelation but I suffer almost an orgasm thinking of the contentment I should feel. To die bringing pure truth in the world is worthy of my life---the Romantic in me says. Then there's existentialism which tells me that since I create my world, then these emotional feelings I have are absolutely worth living for. What's more, I am driven to accept them wholly, while everyone else I observe at a distance because they and I are incapable of every truly communicating to one another--each of us are prisons of our worlds, and the void between each person's experience is boundless and cold and abysmal. Does anyone else have experience dealing with depression rooted in the works of Shelley, Fitzgerald, Byron, Hemingway, Elliot, and Plath? Does anyone else know what it's like to read Hamlet and in it, to find several well-rounded arguments to end your life? I don't want to escape pain. I'm not looking to get back at anyone. I just have a siren call to the grave. And I don't feel my life has any value until I lie severely bleeding from several deep wounds. It's funny, I feel I can only exist as Louise Bryant, John Reed, Scott Fitzgerald, Anais Nin, and Victor Hugo exist to me---people who lived, suffered, and died; people who I only met as ghosts.