I wish I could help you. I wish I could give you some advice. But anything I can think of just sounds hacky. And I’m certainly not qualified. I don’t know your situation. I don’t know you.
God knows I’m genetically/chemically predisposed to depression. But I feel my depression has mostly been situational. My most recent bout came from a feeling of aimlessness and uselessness. I wasn’t doing anything I really wanted, but I didn’t know what I wanted in the first place. Now I’m in school. I have a goal, a reason to get up in the morning. I have very clear progress with each assignment turned in, each box checked. But I worry what will happen when I graduate. Is school just procrastinating? Even if I find a good job right away, I may fall right back into depression again. I don’t know.
I’ve never seriously considered suicide. Briefly, as a teen. But I considered it cheating. I most certainly am a quitter when called for. But suicide felt like a last resort after trying everything else. I haven’t tried everything else yet. I’m still here.
For other people, their depression isn’t situational. Fucking chemicals. Your parents’ fucking genes. There’s no escaping that if that’s the case. Just drugs. I do recommend anti-depressants for those people. I know a woman who takes them. She said she barely needs them, really, but she doesn’t like who she is without them. I don’t really know what she means, but my first thought was, “Then change who you are! Don’t mask the problem, or escape it. Fix it.” But that’s not fair. If she’s really a better, funnier person with the drugs, and happier, then who am I to say.
I recently wondered what’s so bad about suicide. If someone really wants to go away, why is that wrong? My father, a therapist, without me even asking, volunteered some information. He said that among jumpers who survive the fall, the vast majority’s last thought was, “Oh my god, this is a mistake. I want to live.” So besides the waste of suicide, the shame of seeing a promising life end, the potential mistake of it is the scariest.
Sorry if this is too serious. It’s not clever or funny or veiled. You’re probably feeling ten times worse now, reading this. All I can say is: figure it out. Deal with it. Get a prescription if you have to. If your family can’t/won’t help you, find someone who will. Keep writing stupid, silly jokes. Fill the jokes with your pain. That’s where the pain belongs.