I am... chronically suicidal. Supposedly, that lowers your actual chances of completion. I'm not sure if I find that statistic personally applicable. Anyhow, the point of this is, even if no one reads or responds to it, is to just get some things said. I've had an eating disorder since I was thirteen or so and depression since I was eleven. The depression has waxed and waned, but never left me entirely. The eating disorder grew steadily worse until a little over two years ago when my umpteenth form of treatment finally resulted in me getting angry enough to get better. At least, I thought I was better. The truth is, I was functional, but still just as distorted even while medically less compromised. Several months ago, I started slipping back into depression, and the eating habits rapidly returned. Now, the position I swore I would never return to is a reality: I am fully relapsed, fully suicidal, and fully unmotivated to even find where my willpower to get better ever went. I've had to drop out of college before, twice in fact, and I even took nearly three years off while ill and in treatment. I've also failed, after finally returning last fall, to complete this past winter semester - even thought I attended up to the last day of classes. I went inpatient for suicidal intent on the twentieth of April and was released this past Monday. I have no insurance, and fortunately the county sponsored this (my twelfth?) inpatient stay. I haven't really left my room since, with the exception of a couple of appointments related to follow up and to seek out the means to engage in my eating disorder. I feel awful, and know I am incredibly dehydrated, have lost more weight, am nutritionally compromised, electrolyte imbalanced, and it's really hard to even climb the stairs to my third-floor apartment. As I've mentioned, I've had treatment, lots and lots of treatment. I've been medically inpatient, psychiatrically inpatient, residential, and in IOP. I've been on a wide variety of psychoactive pharmaceuticals and have undergone ECT (ten treatments). I've done CBT, DBT, psychoanalysis, endless workbooks and approaches. I know the common denominator is me - and it's no longer from a lack of trying. I tried. I tried with everything I had left, and I thought I had made it. But I was fooling myself, because it all unravelled in so very little time to return to the same utter uselessness I was before, and have really always been. I've attempted suicide five, perhaps six times. The first three attempts, honestly, were cries for help, albeit seriously contemplated gambles as well. The fourth was a moment of sheer panic, impulsivity, and way too many meds. The fifth put me in a coma for five days, and I was and am still angry to have ever awoken. The sixth is hard to quantify because it is an ongoing, somewhat passive gesture whereby I play russian roulette with my body by depleting its resources as much as possible, hoping that it will finally give out. The last psychiatrist I spoke with said he didn't think I'd survive another attempt. Yes, that would be the point. I know enough now to never, ever wake up once I've taken action. I've done the research, obsessively, too, because I cannot fathom waking up to myself again. I know full-well how many people my suicide will affect, and while I am far from immune to the hurt I will cause - I am in too much pain, desperation, and self-hatred to continue on. We all know that a quickly pulled off band-aid actually hurts less than the one we cautiously remove: dying now may be a sharper pain to those who care about me, but it will also be better than watching my living death for however long it takes me to finally die from my disease. And I know you can make a bunch of great arguments against my suicide - I've made them all myself, for myself. They've kept me alive this long. The strongest motivator has indeed been wanting to spare others pain. I know I want out, and I'm resolved to taking my own life, but I recognize others are not. If tomorrow wasn't Mother's Day, I'd go to day, right now, in fact. I have the means at arm's reach. But tomorrow is Mother's Day, so it's going to have to be tomorrow night instead, when I won't wake up on Monday. Yes, I'm aware that dying so close to Mother's Day is probably just as bad, but I'm consoling myself with it not being the actual day. I'm a horrible individual, I know. Anyway, I don't think this has a point - and I don't expect a response. Maybe, instead, I can offer some advice? For what it's worth, never wait to get treatment. The longer you wait, the harder it is to recover; and if you wait too long, well... you end up like me.