For many years, I had begun to understand why I was chronically depressed on earth because I do not experience worse difficulties, such as poverty-stricken people, or I am not traumatized by war and death.
My life was basically hell because of the chemical imbalances in my brain. So being dead was more attractive than living. I never knew it when I was suffering until I was rescued.
I’ve lost my mind completely, and I can’t remember what happened to my parents until they saved me in a psychiatric ward.
I survived because I had clinical interventions and medications. So I’m like people with chronic diseases who have to take pills every day just to continue.
I would like to tell the story of a decade of recovery and derailment of previous episodes, but I didn’t have much time to explain these times to an article or something.
Long story short, I can work here and answer. Now I have no intention of committing suicide because death is a mystery. Perhaps death and death may be worse than the worst in life.
Written by a friend.
