This is not a cry for help. I’m getting help and I’ve been getting help.
I have a depressive mind. When I woke up last Saturday, horrible thoughts were gnawing at me. I scribbled them into my planner.
The note reads as follows:
There’s no good reason for me to exist. If I died, everyone would be better off.
The kids would no longer have a crazy Dad. Heather wouldn’t have to deal with me and she’d get lots of insurance $.
My friends would be fine. I’m a drag on them anyway. Work… it’s laughable to think anyone would even notice.
I’m a drag on the world and it’s in everyone’s best interest if I killed myself.
This is not my real mind. At least, it is not my whole mind. It is a part of it. It is a part of my mind that is trying to protect me, but it is attacking the wrong things, like an autoimmune disease.
Poor mental health is something I cope with along with roughly 1 in 10 of other American Adults.