Here’s the suicide note I’m thinking of using:

 

I’m through living a life whose defining characteristic is being depressed.

 

I have what would appear to others to be a good life. I have parents who love me (albeit from 3000 miles away), good friends (albeit almost all of whom are married and so not as available to their single friends anymore), and a good job (albeit one I no longer have any interest in because I don’t have any interest in anything). In short, I have what appears to be a good life, albeit, it isn’t.

 

I’ve been depressed for ten years now (give or take), and I’ve lived in the DC area for fifteen. Thus, in all my time here, in all my life since graduate school, I’ve lived twice as long depressed as I did enjoying things.

 

I’m killing myself now for what should be a self-evident reason: I don’t want to live any longer. Please resist the urge to lie to yourself or to me by believing that things “would have been better” if I had just done X. Live ten years depressed yourself, then see how well X makes things better!

 

I apologize to anyone I told that I was feeling better. I guess you are familiar with the fact that, when you’re depressed, you exaggerate how bad things are. Well, that works in reverse as well: it’s easy to say how much better things have been lately if you are in one of those momentary cloud breaks.

 

So, I’m skipping all of it.

 

The growing old.

 

The being alone.

 

The sitting at my desk not getting any work done.

 

The knowing that you’re a reasonably smart person and not being able to bring any of it to bear.

 

The utter lack in any interest in anything.

 

The getting fat because eating is the one thing that reliably distracts you from how unhappy you are.

 

The getting up in the morning and SO not wanting to get out of bed.

 

The realizing that life has passed you by and there’s no way to catch up to it.

 

The progressing diabetes and all the fun it has store for you down the road.

 

The sitting in a filthy apartment and not having a tenth the needed willpower to get up and clean it.

 

I’ve already seen what ten years of living like this was like, and I’m looking at a good thirty years more of it. After which, when every last ounce of despair has been squeezed out of me, then, and only then, will I be rewarded for my stamina by being allowed to die.

 

So, sorry to anyone who wanted me to go back for a another helping of that shit, but fuck that, I think I’ll pass.

 

I’m skipping out.

 

Gave at the office.

 

The check’s in the mail.

 

If I do that, the terrorists win.

 

Etc., etc.

 

<sign name here>