..just to get you to read my post. I never knew there was a place I could talk about my feelings about this without some bleeding heart taking it on as their mission to save me. Not that saving me isn't, in someone's life, a noble pursuit. It's just that...when someone tries to 'save' me, I feel obligated to act like I'm saved. God knows, I don't want my death to make someone feel responsible. I'm 51. Father died when I was 17. Mother comitted suicide when I was 19. Got married at 29, then divorced ("I don't think I ever loved you") at 34. None of this is about me. It happened; it wasn't like fate decided to crap on my personal parade. I don't blame anyone. I CAN say that somewhere in there my coping abilities were stretched to the limit, and I've never gotten them back. I have a son who is 21. I will not kill myself outright. I may take risks; smoke, drink, whatever...but I cannot do to him what my mother did to me. Even tho we never got together, what I learned from her suicide was that suicide is an option. I know that if I live, things might suck for the rest of my life. If I kill myself, there will be no chance that I am wrong. it is likely that I will hang out until I die of natural causes, engineer a painless and undetectable suicide, or jump from a bridge. Oh, that's not a good idea; I swim too well. I've tried counseling, numerous meds (under the care of a psychiatrist for the last 20 years, until he suggested I see some freudian chick for intensive therapy that would last AT LEAST three years). I am, at the very least, disillusioned. Psychiatrists prescribe meds like a crap shoot; they don't have a clue, but are willing to keep trying. As soon as my psychiatrist suggested the 'intensive therapy' option (after 20 years working with him), I realized that (1) he gave up, and (2) he wasn't willing to say that and possibly lose me as a paying client. It's all a scam. Psychiatrists don't know squat. Psychologists gave me tons of affirmation...but paying someone to tell me I'm okay is somewhat...unconvincing. But I'm going to hang around, I think. The downside for others is worse than the downside for me, putting up with this life of mine. The thing that bothers me is that I really believe that there are some wonderful things out there that I, for some reason, am unable to get any pleasure from. A clear blue sky. A sunset. A field of goldenrod. Woods to hike through, creeks to kayak through, country roads to bike. I know it is the anhedonia that accompanies depression. I wish I did not feel that this is my destiny.