On depression, suicide, and inappropriate humor (part 1 of whatever)

This guy makes a lot of good points, and I figure he knows something about it (not because he says he does, but because I recognize the humor)

Humor is what they use to call a coping mechanism.

For me that's where the anger comes in handy. 

Humor and anger.


For most of my life I've dealt with depression in various forms (my own, in members of my family, and in some friends [a few of whom failed to survive it])


I figured out early that I could run on anger for a lot longer than I could run without it.
There have been many in life when anger, a quick wit, a flash of decisive adrenaline, were useful things.


And I have to say that some parts of this really spoke to me (specifically the part where he talks about not committing suicide because it would inconvenience someone else).


I know a fair amount about the human body.
I know how to make a knife.
I am familiar with and fluent in firearms.

It was never a matter of not having the means.

More a matter of the finality.
 The finality and the impact on the people around me.

See, for most of a decade between my mid twenties and mid thirties that was a daily decision for me.

 Do I kill myself today? 

No, it might make my parents sad.
No, my co-workers would have to cover my shifts.
No, who would feed the cat?
No, there's no way I can think of doing it that won't leave a mess for someone to clean up...


I spent close to three years thinking up ways around that last one.

I came up with some really creative methods of disposing of my corpse after suicide that wouldn't require other people getting involved.

Hiking into the woods so that animals could eat my carcass.

Buying a boat and sinking myself a mile off shore so that my body could sink.

Digging a pit and burying myself in quicklime.

I gave it a lot of thought.

Desperately searching for work-arounds on my desperate reasons to stay alive.


At the same time I threw myself into a series of really horrible jobs (something I'm still doing to an extent, though my work now is not nearly as physically demanding or dangerous).  I figured if I could work myself to death (preferably being killed on the job), then my family would not have to worry about paying to dispose of me, and they wouldn't have to live with the stigma of being related to a suicide.

I drank a lot.

I vacillated between being a really horrible person and a complete doormat. 

I had a couple of relationships with a couple of really wonderful women.
I managed to destroy those relationships in spite of the love we felt for each other.


And I started writing on here.


Venting and such.

It helped a little.

Helped me let some out, tell some stories, talk about some things. 

And I'm not saying this because I want anyone to try to cheer me up (folks who have dealt with this kind of think know just how horrible it is to have someone try to cheer you up)

I'm saying this because I suspect that at least one of my readers has to deal with this same issue.

And I'm not going to say 'it'll get better'
I'm not going to say 'you have so much in your life'


I'm just going to say that you should try to find one thing that makes you alive.

Find that one thing and hang on to it.

(hell, share it on here...  the world needs more life and happiness, and I suspect so do most of us)