Suicidal depression is a strange, cruel thing. It burrows inside of you. Takes root and grows. Until you feel like it's the only thing you have in life. I've felt this. I've been pushed so far by depression that, while crying, I pushed the mouth of the gun into my own. It felt like a good idea, the best I've ever had. But it was cold, the gun. It was unlike anything I've ever felt, cold like sadness, cold like depression and sorrow. Suicidal depression and suicide are worlds apart. Those world were all in the belly of that gun. My finger trembled on the trigger. I thought it would be easy. I felt like dying, so filled with emptiness, that suicide would be simple. Thinking about suicide was easy; I made plans for my family that would last them twice my lifetime. When I put the gun in my mouth, I became omniscient. I saw all the pain it would cause. My mother crying, my friends no longer laughing, my lover suffering intense drug addiction. I saw a pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with my face, younger, softer, gentler, lying in my arms. I saw a man holding me tight, kissing me gently, holding my hands. I thought I was ready to die. Then I realized how much I still have left to live.