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Why is life worth living?

I think about killing myself everyday. Everyone says that life is worth living, but... For what? I really do not see the point in an of this. I just do not see any meaning in my life. I do not have dreams or pasions anymore... How can I avoid killing myself if I hate everything?

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I feel the same

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Hi try changing to the opposite what you think every day. I have successfully held off suicide for many years by making a decision every morning that this wouldn't be the day I do it. Tomorrow might but not today. This leaves you free to think about and try and enjoy your day as much as possible and is about living in the moment.

I don't see any meaning to life either so you have to create your own, something you enjoy. This could be a job, a hobby, or anything at all. Maybe get a pet? x

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I can’t say what the point to all of this is or if there even is one. What I can tell you is that on some level you need to make a conscious decision to try and enjoy life.

I have wanted to die nearly every day for the last 21 years. Despite saying that I’ve gone through periods of my life where I can go weeks or even months at a time still suffering but not to the point where I wanted to die. Where I was actually happy.

I’ve been the worst I’ve ever been the last 7 years but I’m still trying and what I found has helped me the most was to look at my life say “this is why I’m miserable,” and work towards changing it. My failed marriage and my living situation have a lot to do with why I’m as bad as I am so I separated from my ex and while I agreed to stay until she finished school, I’ve been slowly saving money for a deposit ever since, that way when she begins making more soon I can save the last little bit quickly and move out. I’ve gone out of my way to make new friends and I’ve felt less lonely than I have in a very long time.

So my first question would be, is there something you can control that is making you worse?

Even if there isn’t, is there something that is bothering you that you can make an effort to change for the better? Say you hate feeling out of shape or whatever so you try and find the motivation to exercise.

If there’s nothing you can change right this second what are some changes you can make so that you’re in a position to make a major change in the future?

Life f—-ing sucks most of the time, especially when you’re in a bad situation and alone. Depression only makes it harder to see what is good by forcing us to focus solely on ourselves and what is wrong instead of what is good. I’ve found things in life worth fighting for and I hope you can do the same. It’s a long and difficult journey but with the right changes and help there is hope things will get better. You need to stay hopeful even when it’s hard to be.

I wish you all the best and hope you find a way to get even just a little better soon.

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I’m listening to Matt Haig Reasons to Stay Alive on audible

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I feel the same way. I fight everyday for my son. He is 30 years old, married and doing great in his life. I know it would crush him for his Mom to die much less kill herself. I used to be the happiest woman you could ever meet. Then at 57 years old, I suffered my first panic attack and I have been in a living hell since then. I do have glimpses of the old me at times so I think there is hope, but I miss my old life so badly. Most days I think of how much better it would be if I were just gone, but I can't do that to him. So I will pray for God's mercy and I will pray for you. Hugs my friend. You are not alone.

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I also think about killing myself often. And then I wonder if I actually would. I ask myself why haven't I after all this time. I guess I'm curious, about life, and about tomorrow. And even though tomorrow always brings the same feelings, I keep waiting. I guess I hope. Hope that I can be a better version of myself and feel free from my mind. And if you have nothing to hope for, hope for hope.

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That is a great phrase hope for hope. Also, being curious about life and the future seems like a good reason live hahaha 👍

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You ask, what is the meaning of it all? A Greek guy called Heraclitus gave the answer about 470B.C. He called it evolving to a higher form. That which we are at the end should be greater than what we were at the beginning. He didn't only mean in one lifetime. We have passed this way before, we shall pass this way again.

Maybe this is where all the old cliches come from. Like that which does not destroy us makes us stronger. And every adversity brings with it the seed of a greater benefit.

Could be. At least it gives direction to our lives. The line between anxiety and depression is sometimes blurred. Are we depressed by our anxiety or anxious about being depressed? Chemical balance I know nothing about. But often our depression and anxiety are caused by 'something' and the culprit is often not too hard to find. Toxic relationships. Loss. A job you hate. Grief. Abuse. Money.

If so take decisive steps to neutralise the problem. Be ruthless - it's your happiness that's at stake. The answer may involve major change. Don't just grin and bear it.

axxxx, I don't know if this answers any of your questions. But having goals is definitely a help. Even Baldrick had a plan.

When King Henry VIII's fifth wife, Catharine Howard, stood waiting execution on Tower Hill she did two things. She involuntarily emptied her bladder. Then she looked at the blue sky and the clouds and said: "How...beautiful...life...is!"

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life is worth it having you in it.maybe look at it that way.ive though about ending my life a lot nearly been successful glad I wasn't.life will change and the sun will rise again in your life and you can full fill those dreams and passions.support is vital so please access as much as you can please.take care.

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Hi axxxx,

I have been exactly where you are on many occasions. Ruminating in my bed at ALL times of the day. Suicidal ideations concerning the time, place and method of self-annihilation as if I was planning a vacation. These thoughts were very detailed replete with a specific location (mine was in the woods at a park nearby). I figured my brain matter splattered all over a tree or on a pile of leaves would be much easier to clean up than say, my bedroom or my car (although they could just bury me in my car, like a coffin with a radio/cd player and air conditioning for the summer months).

It was imperative that my act of self-destruction be of no harm to anyone else. I once thought of checking in to an hotel room about a mile or so from my house. I would get a room on the eighth floor and jump off the balcony landing just in front of the entrance some 100 feet below. I dismissed this method because I might land on some unsuspecting soul taking their life as well as my own. I could not reconcile the notion that someone might bear witness to the sight of me falling (SLAT!) right in front of them as they were going to their car. There was also the image of my mangled, tangled body and the unnaturally contorted way it was now part of the asphalt.

There was my plan to "overdose" on sleeping pills. You know, maybe a bottle of 100 little pink pills washed down with my favorite beer. No, I realized that this option might very well become problematic should I not have taken enough, or vomited in my semi-conscience condition. That would be no good. For the rest of my life I would be "observed" by friends and family. Even my doctor would reflect on it as he greeted me for my annual: "So Bob, tried to kill yourself lately? Looks like you failed again, loser".

On St. Patrick's Day, 2011, I sat in my one bedroom apartment which was completely barren except for a futon, a 13-inch TV, and my leather office chair. It was a rather warm, sunny day in Tucson, Arizona. I had spent the last week cleaning out my apartment for my final trip to St. Louis. I recently lost my best friend: a 10-year old Yellow Labrador Retriever named Phoebe. Years before, I had acquired a neurological disorder: Spinocerebellar Ataxia, an auto-immune disorder, which gradually erodes your cerebrum the part of the brain that controls balance, coordination, and fine motor movements.

Despite my condition, I owned and operated a small transportation company (REM Transportation). We provided transportation for developmentally-challenged children who couldn't get on the "regular" bus and lived too far from their school to take the "little bus". On any given weekday I would drive between 300-350 miles a day, usually working 12-14 hours per day. I did this for 11 years.

I would mentor the children by taking them to places like McDonald's where they would learn social skills like behaving well in public places and how to order stuff and pay for it. I loved my work. As the company grew so did my schedule of hours working. I did not take very good care of myself. I would typically eat only once a day (a BIG dinner), and consumed about 100 ounces of Mountain Dew "Code Red" and smoke a pack of Marlboro "reds" throughout my day.

When I got home for the day, there was Phoebe wagging her tail, "pissing-in-her-pants" happy to see me. It was wonderful. No matter how long I was gone for or how late it was, she was a continuous source of unconditional love. She was a big reason I remained in good spirits most of the time in spite of my disorder, no friends, and 65-70 hour work weeks. Phoebe died on February 19, 2011 after undergoing surgery to remove a cancerous tumor on her spleen. A few months earlier, I was forced to give up my business due to my worsening neurological condition. In short, I could no longer pass the ADOT physical that all commercial drivers had to pass every year to be qualified to drive. I had quite a bit of money saved and went on a "spending spree" to the tune of over $40,000. I also had incidental expenses like rent, food, beer (lots of beer!), phone, gas, water, and cable.

I steadily grew more and more depressed and anxious. My world was collapsing all around me and I was not much responsible for it. After all, who wishes for a degenerative disease that slowing erodes their brain making activities they once enjoyed all but impossible. Before my disorder, I was a "tennis junkie". I would play usually 3-4 times a week. Mostly around six am for one and a half hours or so. I had a rotation of friends that would play on different days. Those days were long-gone, for I could barely walk a straight line, much less return a serve. I started to have suicidal ideations. This was as first for me. I detested those who could not "soldier on" amidst psychologically-challenging situations that are a normal part of life.

This was my attitude since my best friend Steve, shot himself in the head in his dorm room at a semi-Ivy League school in Pennsylvania. I grew up next door to Steve in a small town in New Jersey. It was an affluent community, with a population of around 3,000. The town was idyllic, with hills and large wooded areas and most cool were the seven lakes situated in this suburbia located just 30 minutes from New York City. We went camping, fishing and kayaking, smoked a lot of dope, dropped acid, and drank like there was no tomorrow.

I was a sophomore at the University of Arizona when I received a letter from Steve. He would write often, recounting the days of our youth in New Jersey. He would write about how soon we would be done with college, free to start our own business making millions in the process. I looked forward to receiving his letters. They always made me laugh, and reflect on simpler times with a sense of wonderment most commonly displayed by children.

This letter was different. There was little amusing about the content of this three page document. Steve wrote in the past tense. He bemoaned that we were not millionaires in charge of a multi-national conglomerate, a testament to our savvy, intellect and hard work ethic. In short, the letter was downright depressing. My Spidey-sense told me something was wrong. But the rigors of academia along with the chaos of impending finals combined with the social demands of the holidays, I told myself "He's fine, just a little nervous about his final fall semester of college and the six months before graduation from college life into the socially-structured corporate ethos.

Steve took his life shortly before Thanksgiving of 1983. While the small town in northern New Jersey mourned the lost of one of its own. The loss of a star soccer player and second baseman for the high school team, the homecoming king of his graduating class, a young man of many pensive episodes deliberating the meaning and purpose of one's transient presence. Steve's death sent shockwaves through the town. Not a single soul was spared from the maelstrom of despair, loss , grief, disbelief, and tragedy that permeated their existence, upending their lives. Not one soul, except my own.

You see, it was agreed upon that the news of Steve's suicide would not be indicated until I got home from college. When I arrived, my mother asked how the semester went, then inquired what it was I wanted for Christmas. A silence formed and it was then my mother sensing a restlessness in me asked, "What are you going to do now?" As if by reflex, I emphatically stated, "I'm going over to Steve's!".

Her face fell, her eyes started to glaze over, and with a constricted voice she quietly said, "Steve is dead" At first, I wasn't quite able to comprehend the words just projected towards me. I said, "What did you say?" I could feel myself going into a state of shock; a surrealistic, almost hallucinogenic state of being. She reiterated the horrible words, "Steve is dead". At that point an awareness so profound took over with one solemn question: How? Then next it was "When?" My mission at that point was to remove any and all emotional content from my mind. My task was simple: procure every last detail of his passing. Much like a detective hungry for "just the facts" I grilled and probed my mom who by now was sitting and emotionless.

She knew I had the right to know. To know every grisly, heart-wrenching detail. It was a rite of passage the time of which had come. Thoroughly, methodically, I hungered for the circumstances, the context, perhaps even the trauma which would be prerequisite for someone like Steve to commit the most selfish act a human being can perform: the taking of their own life. I felt a nausea in my stomach, like I was going to puke. It was much like the feeling I had when Steve and I would go on a "bender", spending 12-15 hours drinking, smoking and deliberating on our post-college plans to become millionaires. One question stood above the myriad of facts I pressured my mother for: Why? Why did he do it? Why didn't anyone stop him? How could someone who loved him not recognize the pain and suffering that had become his life? A guiding light that does not illuminate a path to happiness, but rather a dark shadow leading to his destruction.

In the weeks that followed, I grew to resent everyone responsible for not informing me of the tragedy that befell our little town. I felt like a stranger looking through a muddled window, a resentment made worse in being the one person in Steve's life that he felt comfortable enough to broach feelings which he would otherwise vehemently deny ever having. We never spoke much about women. Often, I would think that perhaps he struggled with his own sexual orientation. He would make statements that proved most cryptic, almost an attempt to enter into the world of those oppressed or alienated from mainstream society. This behavior became more prevalent as we got older. At one point, he exposed himself to me as if to imply "See what I have been blessed with:" As embarrassing this situation was, I simply redirected the conversation with the words, "That's sick man, seek help" Of course, I said it in a humorous way, and usually followed with "Let's smoke another bowl".

The most unsettling thing I experienced that holiday season was the feeling I wasn't good enough or mature enough to be told of his passing at the time it happened. In some ways I felt I lacked the respect of those I called "Family" I felt so utterly marginalized that a sense of immediate escape fell upon me. Friends of Steve would come over and in a somewhat condescending manner would tell me how "sorry" they were for me not being able to attend his funeral. They spoke about the days after his death; the shock, the hysterical state his mother was in, his 4 sisters and 2 brothers who all came in from different parts of the country to join together to begin the mourning process.

When one experiences a profound loss it is imperative they start the period of grieving which is necessary for the reconciliation of a significant loss. The first part of this process is mourning. Mourning is simply the outward expression of grief associated with the loss of someone they loved and cared for. This typically takes place during the wake and/or funeral. These are cultural in nature. Different cultures perform different rituals. In Judaism, for example, the deceased is not embalmed, thus, the funeral takes place the following day or two.

I have all but forgiven those who chose not to inform me of Steve's death. I will never however, forget. I was denied the opportunity to mourn with family and friends. The thought of this fact unravels me as I write this sentence. Not being able to attend his funeral was nothing short of grotesque cruelty. To this day, this very moment, my heart swells with sorrow 35 years after my BFF destroyed all the beauty he brought to this world; the random acts of kindness, and the generosity that was a selfless act of love to whom ever had an unmet need.

I am a man of science. I have a degree in chemistry as well as a masters in gerontology. I am by my very nature an inquisitive soul, never happy with the answer, "It's just the way it is" Or even worse, "I don't know". Mankind was placed here to explore, adventure, and grasp all one can in the time we are given. I am requesting you to "seize" every opportunity available to learn how to love yourself as deeply as you can. I request that you understand that life was never meant to be all "shits and giggles", but rather a delicate balance, an equilibrium which we have limited control over. I request that you practice gratitude for even the smallest of things in your life. Do this daily, as many time as you can. I request that you understand you are unique in every way, and this uniqueness is what makes you perfect. I request that you act the way that satisfies you most. I request that you don't compare yourself to anyone else because that would serve to deny your true identity. I request that you talk to yourself like you would to a scared, lost and lonely boy. That boy is within you. Talk to him, embrace him, show him the love and sense of purpose that he deserves and so completely yearns for. Nurture that boy, make him wise beyond his years. Teach that boy to love himself first, before anything, so he may love others more deeply, more completely.

In time, with patience, and with a purpose, that boy will grow to reach heights he never dreamed possible. Have you ever noticed, that when you wanted something, I mean REALLY wanted something that was within the realm of possibilities, you received It? Things might seem bleak now, but that is simply a matter of perception. To you, a rusty old car might seem, even appear, to be a worthless POS. But, to another, it might be the old relic they have sought for years. The difference in points of view can be chalked up to one single thing: Perception.

Understand that "perfect" does not, nor ever did, ever exist. It is simply an illusion concocted by someone looking for something in their lives. Perhaps it was a "calling" in the form of an epiphany. Maybe something was missing in their day-to-day life; perhaps a sense of purpose which sets the soul free to discover themselves. Remember self-love is absolutely necessary to your happiness. Make it a priority in your life to learn all there is to know about learning to love yourself. I'll tell you what: I love you as a heart and a soul. I am a one-finger typist and I have poured a lot of time and effort into your request for help. In fact, I have spent so much time sitting at my desk to write this that my ass is quite literally numb. With this in mind, I have one final request: Go onto the internet and "google" the words: SELF-LOVE. Even better, log onto Pinterest and search using the term "self-love" or "Learning to love yourself" You will be amazed. Alright, I need to go to the "little boys" room. I will leave you with this: Learn to love yourself; Don't compare yourself to others (their world sucks too, you just can't see it); Practice gratitude daily (even for the smallest things); Make a small list of things that "tickle" your mind and act on them (at least imagine you are); Exist in the "here and now" (you can't change the past, and worrying about the future detracts from today); For one day, say "Hi" to everyone who comes within three feet or less of you (you might be in for a surprise); DO NOT let society or individuals tell you how to be(think for yourself, be who you are comfortable being, and FUCK whatever anyone else says, be a "free thinker"); If you need help GET IT! (even if it means going to the convenience store and asking for help-do it!). Of course, you can always contact me. I might just have the solution/suggestion you're looking for. 24/7/365.

A note about Steve: I have not fully reconciled his death. There are times it haunts me all day. I then become sad and angry. Sad because I love him and miss him. Angry because he took the pussy's way out. Your life is what you make it: Find a purpose that resonates with you (take your time if you need to), and run with it (you can always change course if you need/want to.). Give thanks for everything in your life on a daily basis (I just say, "Thank you God and Jesus, Amen), Suicide is a permanent fix for a temporary problem. Don't let life's "tiny tragedies" consume you.

By the way, it was on St. Patrick's Day, 2011, that I put a loaded .380 semi-automatic hand gun into my mouth. Sitting in my office chair, I asked myself one question: "Why shouldn't I do this?" I thought about my family and the affect it would have on everyone who loved and cared for me. Thoughts of Steve's decision on that cold autumn day swirled in my head. But ultimately is was the sound of a lone voice. That of a scared, sad, and lonely boy. The one who had resided in me for all my life. As precious and pure as he was, I never took time to comfort him, guide him to all things beautiful in life. I never stopped for one moment to pick him up and tell him "everything will be just fine, you have an incredible journey ahead of you." That boy saved my life. Take care enough to love yourself. So many others already do. Peace.

Bob

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How are you doing today?

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Better, thank you for asking.

I am still really scared of everything because I have generalized anxiety and it makes me feel scared of literally everything... But... At least I am feeling better.

I am going to group therapy, being with others help me to feel better. Also, because I am in college, I am going to tutoring for my classes. I am also going to career counceling. I have an A in all my classes.

I even got a cat 😺 hahaha

I am trying to become closer to my family and I am trying to be kind with the people around me.

I am trying to look pretty again, take care of what I eat, do exercise, and at least being friendly with my classmates. I am even thinking about getting a boyfriend.

Being depressed sure is hard, but... I want to get the best quality of life that I can.... I do not know what I want to do in the future, but at least I am trying to live in the present with the best quality of life that I can.

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That's great news! I'm happy to hear that your out and trying and doing!! Sounds like your headed in a good positive direction!

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WHY ? It's A "Gift" & It's What YOU Make It....

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