I felt like I was constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown over the weekend. It’s been a while, but I started thinking about suicide again. Not a heavy-hearted consideration, simply something I was turning over in my head. Suicide only makes sense when the good outweighs the bad, long-term considered, and for a moment there, it felt like the future had nothing to offer. I had lost interest in all the small things that keep me sane on a day-to-day basis; the movement of my music, the company of my friends, the comfort of my writing, the memories of my relationships. The problem was that I couldn’t explain the feeling, which was more scary than anything else, as someone who takes pride in knowing himself through and through. It was a completely irrational pattern of thought, and I knew it, but I couldn’t convince myself of it. The only reason I could come up with was a chemical imbalance, caused by a rather sudden abstention, along with a general feeling of sickness I’ve had since the beginning of the month.

I have more to live for than most people I know, but none of that meant a thing. This gave me some minor panic attacks, because I’d lost my reasons for living, and more significantly, never saw them improving. I started to understand how beautiful, influential, famous, successful people like Margaret Laurence, Elliot Smith could kill themselves. All I knew is that I didn’t want to be one of those people. One of those people who took their lives suddenly, irrationally, without any notice. The step-mother who fought life-long depression. The friend who just decided that they couldn’t deal anymore. If I was going to die, I’d at least wait another year, another ten years to see if the anything would change or improve, because life is worth it. I started playing Ratchet And Clank to keep my mind off anything heavy, and kept playing 12 hours through the repetitive motion symptoms. I discovered that it’s one of the most remarkable games I’ve ever experienced, and it let me know that I can still enjoy things. That’s at least one reason, right? Or am I living backwards, desperately clinging to what I have left, trying to justify my existence?

After explaining it all to John last night when he got home, my situation started to make sense again. Some things only do after I say them. I confided in Shirley today too, even though she doesn’t fully understand, and never could. She told me that she’d go to hell and bring me back just to kill me again. Hearing that brought a little smile to my face. I feel better in a very general, inexplicable sense, and am left with a slightly worrying, unsettled feeling.

This is probably one of the most difficult entries I’ve ever written. Even now I don’t know why I felt compelled to do so. Being able to means that I’m at least temporarily comfortable enough to speak about something that I’m terrified of thinking of.