...I keep trying to type out a long missive regarding my attempts, but I always lose my resolve. This probably isn't going to go anywhere, so here's an apology in advance to anyone who tries to make sense of it. I guess I'll just say that I don't have much of a good reason for being the miserable waste of oxygen that I am, but I don't have any motivation to fix myself, either. I can't get to therapy, let alone take medication -- I'm currently trapped under my Narcissistic mother's thumb, in a church that believes psychology is a "lie of the Devil," and my depression is caused by me being possessed by evil spirits. I could run away -- I want to; I tell myself I'm going to; as soon as I have the money. I just kind of... can't earn the money, when I have no motivation to fight this depression. It gets to the point where I just want out. I've been entertaining my ideations for about... two and a half years, I think? They got much more vivid after I started lurking at a certain mailing list, which I've been trying to stay away from. I became a methods guru -- I knew the pitfalls of everything I might possibly attempt, and I knew that all of them were painful, most of them were dangerous to other people, and few of them would actually work. Still, sometimes, my ideations are the only thing that calm me. So, I set standards for myself when thinking about suicide -- I told myself that if I ever did go through with it, I'd have to make it look like an accident. Since a successful suicide that looks like a believable accident is almost impossible to pull off -- I know because I researched it for months -- I thought that at least resolving to kill myself that way would keep me safe. I could think about it as much as I wanted, and I wouldn't ever actually do it because it was too difficult. Probably. Maybe. And eventually, I just get to the point where I say "screw it," and attempt to do it directly. The most recent of those was last Tuesday, when I tried to jump out of a window. I don't really want to say anything more about it, except it was so utterly terrifying, I'll never, ever try that again. ...I can think of plenty of reasons why I don't want to die. I don't want to be slandered in my church as an example of A Real-Life Person You Knew Who is Now Burning in Hell for the Sin of Suicide. I can't abide the thought of my mother having my poor little cat put to sleep because there's no one to take care of her. And who knows -- I just might wind up burning in Hell. If God really is real (and you don't know how badly my hands were shaking as I typed that -- actually admitting in words that I'm not sure if God is real; my mother would strangle me...), then I can't imagine He's very pleased with me, and the way I've wasted my life. But I can't think of any reasons why I want to live, either. I don't want to climb Mt. Everest, or write a bestselling novel, or meet my future grandchildren, or anything. I want to not live in terror that everything's going to get worse, I guess. I want to sleep peacefully for a really, really long time. Like, for the rest of my life. So I haven't killed myself yet. In the meantime, I cry a lot, and drink a lot, and eat a lot of cake before throwing it back up again. After twelve years of depression and bulimia, my body is rotting out from beneath me. I get sick constantly, and I have no energy. When I think about my options -- run away someplace where my mother won't be able to track me down, fight my way out of church and into therapy, or commit suicide -- just taking a deep breath and jumping out that window seems like it'd be so, so much easier than anything else. I feel stuck. I wish I'd gone through with it.