I try.

I try, but...

...there really is nothing that makes me want to stay on this planet for any longer.

But it'd break my mother's heart, and might induce my daughters to follow me, and...

...do I NEVER get to get away from this pain?

You might have heard about white privilege, or male privilege, or straight privilege.

There's also suicide privilege.

I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder at the age of 12. I have since gone on to have two children, both of whom are adults now (one turns 27 this year; the other turns 24). My dysfunctional mental genes have been passed on to both children, unfortunately.

I want to die. I have promised myself that I won't kill myself until after my cats have all passed on of natural causes, because they're all old cats who would have no success in being rehomed. They'd be put down rather quickly, especially as several of them have health issues. I love them too much to do that to them.

But after that?

Yeah.

Now, I fully claim the right to end my own pain at a time of my choosing.

My children have both had periods of time when their own depression led them toward similar feelings.

But rather than accept that they also have the right to escape their depression in a final manner, I recoil from the idea that they might end their lives prematurely. I don't want them to waste their lives, even though I fully acknowledge that their pain may be every bit as bad as my own.

Suicide privilege.