Morbid thoughts

I am listening to Emilie Autumn's The Art of Suicide and thinking about that topic.

When I was feeling suicidal, I couldn't understand what was so bad about it. If life was so intolerable and painful, why keep struggling? If you're so tired in your bones and your soul, why keep plodding along? I was so exhausted in these ways, all I wanted was rest and peace, and while I was still drawing breaths, I could have neither. "Rest" to most means to lie down and recuperate--to me it meant to be still and silent and done. It's not as though I wanted this to be temporary; I wanted my poor body and soul to be released and this life to be finished. I didn't want to feel sensations, physical and emotional, any more. I was only living for me and "me" was a mass of pain. The suicidal feeling is difficult to put into words because it's a FEELING. A deep, heavy feeling. Perhaps like having been in a drenching rain in heavy clothes--a  thick wool sweater and boots--in the chill of a fall morning, and having to stand outside for hours...and developing pneumonia. I don't know if that description even comes close.

And the only panacea is hope--not just any small thing to hope for either, something life changing and affirming  Something to live for, and I mean, really live for. Not job, notoriety, accomplishments, or, in my case, even my loving husband. I needed something that would have its entire world changed, a lifelong effect, if I disappeared. Yes, friends and husband would have a changed life, but I only felt guilty if I left them. They would eventually move on, really, because that's how life is.

I never did resolve these feelings; I have been on antidepressants so I don't feel so much. For now, ritual and structure are helpful. I love my child.  I'm relatively happy. I'm afraid what would happen should I stop the meds, though.