Cutters are pussies.

Before you harangue me with hate mail, let me finish.

Depression, particularly teenage depression, is a pretty damn terrible thing. I should know. The fingernails of despair screeched on the chalkboard of my mind for years. Looking back on it now, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Life wasn't great, but then again, I wasn't wading through sewage in some Third World ghetto, either. (Yes, I know the term "Third World" is obsolete since the collapse of the Warsaw Pact, but it still conjures a vivid picture.)

Around the time I was eleven or twelve, I was seized with a profound, seething hatred for my own life. I wasn't content to simply wait for death to find its way to me like most people. I was a young man of action! I was going to do it myself, and by God, I was going to be thorough!

I was intensely suicidal for some time and it only slowly improved. I eventually recovered to some extent. I suicidal so much as I was anxious to die, but I was over doing it by my own hand. Later I was just indifferent to death. All in all, I only suffered for about a decade or so. Now, of course, I'm actually happy that I didn't off my self. Can you believe it? Me! Happy! Weird. Thinking back on it now, it's scary how close I came to finishing the job, and I can't even explain why I felt the way I did.

So, I can sympathize with people who are going through that, but I can't help but feel a profound contempt for those people who seem to fail at suicide repeatedly. It seems paradoxical that on one hand I can know what there going through but on the other hand roll my eyes in disgust. Why is that?

A person not killing him or herself is definitely a good thing, but after several attempts, you get the impression that their heart isn't it in. I was acquainted with one person who committed suicide. I feel sincerely sorry for him, and I hardly knew the guy. I also know someone who made overdosing a hobby, and yet still lives. I consider her a hopeless wimp with no follow-through. Both are clearly manifestations of deep psychological pain, so what does the latter case vex me so?

I think perhaps in my mind it mocks those tragic cases where the person actually did it, as well as my own past suffering. I wasn't looking for pity or attention or some kind of endorphin rush. I was looking to end it permanently. Maybe that's why I resent it so much.

Well, whatever. The point is, I didn't do it, and I hope no one else does. As for all of those people who can't seem to commit to anything, read Ayn Rand. It's just as painful, but less bloody. Better yet, everyone will feel sorry for you.

What's that? What was my method going to be, you ask? Shotgun. 12-gauge. None of this pill-popping or artery slicing for me. I'm talking about splattering my pubescent brain on the wall and getting a closed-casket funeral. At one point, I had the gun on my lap and was staring at it. I suspect that the only thing that kept me alive was the fear of going to Hell. These days I'm a hardcore agnostic. Ironic, isn't it?

A few years ago, I finally told my mom what had been going through my mind when I was a teenager. She was stunned that she never knew. That alone has made my survival worth it.

So if you're depressed and you somehow made it this far, don't do anything dumb! Life WILL get better! Well, that may be an exaggeration, but at the very least, old age will numb you! You won't care so much!