Depression....
How many people, I wonder, if they were honest, would admit to thoughts of suicide. I know I think of it at least once a day, usually only in passing, but sometimes I actually consider all the things I would need to do before taking that step -- loose ends to tidy up, personal possessions to dispose of, legal matters to decide. If I do decide to check out, I don't wnt to leave a mess behind for someone else to have to tidy up. I suppose that's really the best defense against suicide: not all the fancy anti-depressants whose performance is hit-or-miss at best, but the sheer inertia and encrustation of our daily lives.
I know one of the real stumbling blocks is my fondness for personal possessions. Modern funerary practices frown on taking our possessions with us when we go, so I have to come up with a way of making sure that those things I truly treasure end up in the hands of those I believe will appreciate them, and not auctioned off at pennies on the dollar by some government stooge. Now much of what I've accumulated I can easily sell, thereby recouping at least a little of my money while at the same time uncluttering my home -- thirty years of being a packrat does make for a lot of clutter -- but other things I couldn't bear putting in the hands of strangers. So after careful consideration, I've decided the best course of action would be to pack up those things I want to pass along, clearly labelling their destinations, and then place them in a storage locker, one paid up for a year in advance. I could put it in the name of someone I could trust to carry out my wishes, and that way when I was gone I'd leave knowing that my favorite things would be going to good homes.
I figure I have a little over a year and a half to make such arrangements. A promise I made myself means that I have a deadline of August 24, 2005 -- my 50th birthday. And while it does seem like a short time for some of what I want to do, it also makes it easier to handle the bouts of depression, knowing there's a firm window when I won't have to deal with them anymore.
Now before you all decide I'm ready for a rubber room and dull plastic cutlery, let me explain my situation. I'm 48 years old, and have outlived all my immediate family. What relatives I have are too distant even to consider, I've never had much in the way of friends -- acquaintances, yes, but not friends. Friends, I bleieve, should call you at least as often as you call them, should make an equal effort to keep the lines of communication open, but since my bst friend passed away last year, the number of times people have called me has dropped to nil. After a while, if you're the only one doing the calling, you cease to feel like a friend and start to feel like an imposition. Well, I choose not to impose.
On top of that, my health is failing. I take close to a dozen presriptions every day, for the most part a blend of anti-depressants and painkillers for arthritis. It's hard to feel bright and chipper when you're in constant, low-level pain from the time you wake up until the time you fall asleep (if you sleep at all). Some days all you want is for the pain to stop, and if you refuse to indulge in alcohol or drugs, where do you turn for relief?
Well, that's all for now. I'll still be around for a while, and who knows, maybe I'll come up with a solution that doesn't involve self-termination.
And maybe the horse will sing.......
I know one of the real stumbling blocks is my fondness for personal possessions. Modern funerary practices frown on taking our possessions with us when we go, so I have to come up with a way of making sure that those things I truly treasure end up in the hands of those I believe will appreciate them, and not auctioned off at pennies on the dollar by some government stooge. Now much of what I've accumulated I can easily sell, thereby recouping at least a little of my money while at the same time uncluttering my home -- thirty years of being a packrat does make for a lot of clutter -- but other things I couldn't bear putting in the hands of strangers. So after careful consideration, I've decided the best course of action would be to pack up those things I want to pass along, clearly labelling their destinations, and then place them in a storage locker, one paid up for a year in advance. I could put it in the name of someone I could trust to carry out my wishes, and that way when I was gone I'd leave knowing that my favorite things would be going to good homes.
I figure I have a little over a year and a half to make such arrangements. A promise I made myself means that I have a deadline of August 24, 2005 -- my 50th birthday. And while it does seem like a short time for some of what I want to do, it also makes it easier to handle the bouts of depression, knowing there's a firm window when I won't have to deal with them anymore.
Now before you all decide I'm ready for a rubber room and dull plastic cutlery, let me explain my situation. I'm 48 years old, and have outlived all my immediate family. What relatives I have are too distant even to consider, I've never had much in the way of friends -- acquaintances, yes, but not friends. Friends, I bleieve, should call you at least as often as you call them, should make an equal effort to keep the lines of communication open, but since my bst friend passed away last year, the number of times people have called me has dropped to nil. After a while, if you're the only one doing the calling, you cease to feel like a friend and start to feel like an imposition. Well, I choose not to impose.
On top of that, my health is failing. I take close to a dozen presriptions every day, for the most part a blend of anti-depressants and painkillers for arthritis. It's hard to feel bright and chipper when you're in constant, low-level pain from the time you wake up until the time you fall asleep (if you sleep at all). Some days all you want is for the pain to stop, and if you refuse to indulge in alcohol or drugs, where do you turn for relief?
Well, that's all for now. I'll still be around for a while, and who knows, maybe I'll come up with a solution that doesn't involve self-termination.
And maybe the horse will sing.......