But it didn't help. I still wanted to die. I was so tired. This next statement really sums up what depression has been for me; but no-one seems to "get" it.

Getting out of bed, and putting on my pants, was harder than running a half marathon. In a very literal sense. It felt like I was overcoming physical burdens to just function. Routine helped, but I've never "tried" so hard.

Emotionally, I was so numb. I got a huge promotion at work. I did not care. My great grandfather died. I did not care. A horrible thing to say, but I had lost the capacity, 90% of the time, to feel meaningful emotions. They were the only things I missed. But when I had them, they were torment.

I would lie on the floor, crying. For four, maybe five hours each time. But I yearned for that pain, because I felt alive. Ironic, that I wanted to be alive until I died.
I was still seeing a psychologist, but was not on medication. I was always honest with her, except for "the plan".

I began to drink a lot. I think I hoped I'd get drunk enough to have the courage to do it right. Death is still intimidating for me, even when I want it. It didn't help though. I'd drink 30 or 40 standard drinks, and waste the day in the shower covered in vomit. I never got to the point I would be while drunk, so I would just do it sober. I gave it up.

I took a "goodbye trip". To see family and friends. It was the first time they ever knew something was up. But to them, it was so subtle. Just a quietness of character. A dimming of the bulb.

Through coincidence, I was back home on a flight on New Years Eve. I was so certain I'd do it. No plans for elaborate, painless, ways. Just in the shower, with a kitchen knife and warm water. Hard to mess up too badly, since no-one would come looking for weeks.

I wrote my letter. I apologised. I asked if people could one day forgive me. I told them it's not their fault. Got naked, got in the shower, and I had just begun to cut myself, only shallow, when my phone rang with my dads call tone. I'm not sure why, but my determination went to dust. I thought of him, and the pain it would hurt. I told myself, I'd try even harder. I would do anything short of ECT. I'd go to hospital. I'd take medication. Anything.

My psychologist was going to have me hospitalised, but she said she trusted me, and was giving me a chance, referred me on to a prominent psychiatrist. She was against drugs too, but thought I wouldn't get better without them.

I fought for a year and a half. I went through a number of drugs, of different classes. One looked promising, but the affects went away at lower doses, and I was hyper aggressive at the higher dose. Eventually though, escitalopram "worked" best. But I started to feel again. My anxiety slowly got better.

I remember the first time I actually felt "hope". I felt like God. Invincible. Indestructible. How could I fail with hope? The drug made me "physically" tired. I had to take a dump every 3 hours. I put on a few kg. But motivation wise, it made up for it.

I got out of it... I thought. Looking back, I told myself I would never become like that again. Sound plan...

I met a new lover. She was a pretty nice girl. Didn't work out. Unfortunately, she said and did some really terrible things at the end. The break-up was a bit messy, but not extreme. A series of events really triggered off my anxiety. I lost 5kg in a week because I wasn't eating and stopped running. I stopped talking to people. I couldn't sleep more than two hours a night, on a good night. I started getting mouth ulcers.

Then came the inevitable old friend. A lot of my friends who I had told the first time around, have started getting concerned. It puts burden on them. It is not something they can just "know about and forget". They make a lot of effort too, which makes me feel bad, because I just don't care enough a lot of the time.

I saw myself slipping into a nuclear episode again. I've tried to stave it off. I'm looking for a new doctor, since I've moved since the previous event. I'm making myself eat more. I'm making myself talk to people. I'm going to the gym and running. I'm practicing and applying the techniques I learned in ACT therapy (And CBT to a lesser extent).

I'm not sure at this stage if I've stopped it. It's too early to tell. I feel like I'm on the edge of the abyss. It's easy to say it will be ok from the edge. It's a different world when you're in it.

I've spoken to my sister. To my dad. To friends. For help, for support. Because I know it's the personally responsible thing to do. But the burden on them is huge. How guilty would anyone feel, or responsible, if someone decided to give up on life, despite someone coming to them for help? Cognitively they would understand, but emotionally it's very different.