Last week I seriously contemplated suicide. For several days, on and off, the idea plagued me.
Now, I have occasionally suffered through periods of depression, so the thought of killing myself wasn’t new, except this time, curiously, there were no feelings of apprehension or anxiety. The lurid method, corresponding experience (dying), and aftermath, were analyzed with serine clarity.
Unlike previous instances; I never felt the crushing sadness that accompanies depression. The world was bright, hopeful, only I had grown tired of it. Inconsolably bored of it. Ready to move on – if there is anything to move on to.
Like a migraine producing low pressure system, I weathered the storm, making a conscious effort to listen to the uplifting thoughts, let slip the morbid ones, until it passed. What frightens me now is the realization that I am at peace with my own mortality. When this tempest blows in again, will I be able to hunker down and wait for its inevitable passing?
I think so.