I've no idea if this violates any rules, but for those eager to report it, please keep this in mind: this is my rant, and I'm ranting here to try and feel marginally better...at least for today. Why do I go on, when every time I try to pick myself up, I fall back down even further? It's been this way for so long, I feel like I'm like 500 feet below the ground, and so the prospect of rising even half that distance is ultimately meaningless. It wasn't always this way...it wasn't always this way. Up until puberty I had friends, I was good in school, I was healthy physically and I guess mentally. Sure, when I was a kid, I used to hide under the sink in my Grandparents home, or compulsively fold clothes, whether clean or dirty. They joked that it meant I was one day going to own a laundromat, but how wrong they were. When puberty came, I came undone. I'm not sure exactly when it happened or why, but all I know is that I didn't feel as if I belonged. I am gay you see...and none of my other friends were. And while they were chasing girls, I was deeply ashamed of who and what I was. And that's where other things began to happen: compulsive eating, social withdrawal, isolating myself even from my own family. That was actually not the hardest part because I always felt as if my Father disliked me, and my Mother would if she knew that I was gay. I don't remember exactly how old I was when I first attempted to end my life, but I do remember laying out on a street, hoping a car would run me over. Later, it was not so much an attempt to end my life as an attempt for fate to give me a sign. This would become an ongoing effort for me: looking for fate to give me some kind of sign that things would be okay. I'd worked since I was 13 years old, and I worked hard in school, so I was able to afford to buy things, and eventually went to university. I still remember what motivated me to aspire to go to university: Dead Poets Society. The thought of belonging with those around you...convinced me to take out the loans to go to university, to live in residence, and to hope that finally I could be like others. But it wasn't to be. Of all the things that could've happened, a women in university accused me of sexual harassment, though as a gay male I don't understand it...not even to this day. The hopes of belonging perished, my weight ballooned and my depression seized up again. I think it was around this time that I didn't only feel like I didn't belong around others...but also that when I was around others, I was in imminent danger of at best being maliciously judged by others, and at worst being harmed by them. Against all odds, I did finish my university education...but by the end, I no longer cared about it. The degree was for everyone in my family who wanted it...to this point in my life, it's done nothing for me but cost me money. If I had it to do all over again, I would never have gone to university. After graduation, I came back home and started on a new job. I was amazed to get it...because I had no self confidence, and even in those days I felt the ominous grip of depression stalking me. Yet as I said, I'd worked since I was 13, and so I plunged into the job, and was successful at it...even though every day, I felt myself slowly dying. It wasn't because I was working...it was because I didn't understand WHY I was working. What was I working for? Friends jumped into long term relationships, some got married, some had children...their lives meaning something. I on the other hand was splurging on distractions because there was literally nothing else I could do. Being around people made me anxious, the anxiety ruled my life, the depression was always there, and I was so damn lonely! When layoffs claimed my job, on the surface I appeared to be happy, but inside I was mortally wounded. It was like an affirmation of life's rejection of me...seemingly from the time I reached puberty. I was lucky, and my sister managed to get me into her company in a manner of about a month and a half after I'd been laid off. In the new job, I met some people who were very nice...and worked hard to build relationships with them. But at the end of the day, the reality was all the same: I have nothing to offer people in life. I'm not popular, I don't know how to build social relationships, and I was sad way too often. And the feeling of slight when one would get married, and most of the team would be invited while I was not, or the fact that they all would get together to play baseball, go drinking, or go out to parties...took a toll. I'd felt rejected all my life...so it wasn't a new feeling. Rather it was like a dull heart ache, reminding me that no matter what I did, nothing would change. Finally my body began to show other signs, besides the onset of obesity, that I couldn't go on the way I had. Eczema racked me all over...a gruesome, weeping kind in the most embarrassing places. Shingles followed...a couple of nasty bouts that I could do nothing but endure. Stress headaches, mysterious eye infections, nausea, digestive problems, urinary problems, sleeplessness mixed with lethargy, sexual dysfunction...the list went on and on. Everything that gives people pleasure in life...I feel like I lost and never recovered. Of course I had people to turn to, right? Well, not so much: my Father was engrossed with a new wife (my Mother had passed away when I was 17, about 7 months after her Father had passed away), my older sister was married with children, my younger sister was in a long term relationship with her live in boyfriend, and my younger brother had ended his life. Even he knew there was something wrong with me: in one of his suicide notes, he wrote to my Father that he saw how I lived (lonely and depressed), and he didn't want to live that way. Following my brother's death, I saw a psychiatrist and a therapist. The therapy ended when I'd reached the limit on my sessions, which were paid for by my company. The psychiatrist put me on remeron, which left me feeling like a zombie...before he ultimately reduced it and sent me back to work. I did my best, but the dark thoughts came back. I was being drawn to overpasses like a bee is drawn to a blooming flower, and the thing is, I wasn't even afraid to jump off them anymore...but for that rational part of me that reminded me of the trauma that my younger brother's death had left...and how cruel it would be if I did that to my sisters, my Father, and my niece and nephew. So instead of ending my life, I fell so far that I was put back in the care of a psychiatrist, who tried a variety of medications. When he was out of ideas, he decided it was time for me to go back to work. I didn't feel better, didn't feel stable...I didn't even have repeats on my medications, or receive any follow up appointments. Following my brother's passing, I'd been back at work for about 3 years before the relentless suicidal thoughts had taken hold again. After the care of the second psychiatrist, my time back at work lasted for only about 14 months before...once again, I was no longer functional. A referral to a new psychiatrist, one who gave me reason to hope that I could be free of this omnipotent paid and distress, followed...and I was in his care for about 3 years. As with the other psychiatrists, he'd tried every medication he could think of...but by the end, he too gave up...and so I am here. I'm on disability right now, but I don't know what the future holds. Am I to be plugged back in, like a battery that hasn't been able to charge, destined to be discarded when I'm determined to be functionally useless? Will I even get the chance for that, or am I to be cut off disability, and with no other source of income, placed in a situation where I've no other choice but to develop my exit strategy? I want to have faith in people, but having faith in others has never worked out very well for me in the past, and the Aspergers, the Anxiety, the Obsessive thoughts and the Bi-polar Depression stand before me, like biological adversaries that have their hooks in me and are stalking me! I feel like the proverbial caged animal which knows death is coming, but doesn't yet know when and how. Except...I've felt that way now for about 25 years. My Mother was terrified of suicide because she said she'd seen a movie where all those who commit suicide go to hell...yet I feel like right now, I'm living in an unending hell. I don't want to feel afraid anymore. I don't want to feel sad, or lonely, or guilty, or bad about myself anymore. I don't want to keep feeling this sense of hopelessness...and this obligation to endure it for the sake of others. I've never intentionally hurt anyone in my life...why does life keep hurting me so much? Why do I go on?