It DOSEN'T get easier
I could be a billionaire, I could have percieveably have everything in the world and yet I still think I would want to kill myself every mintue of every day. Nothing really seems to matter to me at all. Nothing pleases. Nothing entertains. Nothing joys. Yes, sure I am interested in things but those interests are stifled by severe concentration issues. I love reading but can only do so much without the depression interfering too badly, and that is quite frustrating. My parents took my computer away a year and a half ago (and for good reason I suppose) and that really hurt me. I lost what little I did have. I lost my extensive collection of computer software, movies, books, music and most especailly of all my writing and other work. My computer was my best and only friend. Losing the computer itself was trivial, what really matter was all the work that I had on it. I bought cloud storage now, (with two different sites), altought expensive this will assure me that won't happen again. This was uppseting but besides I must admit I did erase my work a good amount of the time, in fits of rage and sucidial ideation. I
I attempted sucidie when I had just turned fifteen. (I am almost 19 now). Extremely severe depression had ravaged my mind for five or so years, since I nine or ten, and every moment of my existence was comprised of agony the likes of which hell would tremble to. I had literally thought about it pretty much every day, every hour for several years prior. Every day I believed would be my last. I would work myself up to do it, but at the very last moment would hesistate and then put it off. Even my sucide attempt, I would say was not fully committed. I would spend hours at the railraod tracks or along a highway trying to get myself to move into oncoming traffic or lay against the rails to be demolished by a train. I longer so badly for my own demise. I wished so entirely to persih. And yet I don't believe that's really what I wanted. I wanted to rid myself of this irrevoaiblae pain, a task that seemed daunting and insurmontable. I wallowed in my suffering, incapable of escaping. I took a mixture of chemical I had made. I threw everything in, yet I still avoided the harsher things I knew I could have added. Paint thinner, ammonia, rat poision, weed be gone and about nine other chemicals. I didn't gas myself. I drank. I gulped it down with a vigor unprecendated by any other action in my life. The chemicals began to work and take hold of me.  My body began to shake uncontroably and I started vomiting blood. I immediately wished to get it out of my body. But at the same time, my dichotomogty still presented itself and I wanted to die. Not to run away anymore, not to momentarily retart, but to take my chances with the unknown. I passed out and woke up in a hospital. I still live with the effects, kindey, throat and liver damage. I still want to complete what I half hearthedly did every day, every hour. And yet I don't. I hold off and bear the pain because I don't want to hurt my family. Although I usually convince myself they would be much much better off without me.