Death is an absent friend

Most of you will read this and be aghast.  Some might be terrified, horrified, and even traumatized by the words.  The shame of suicide means that even when we talk about it we try to evade, dissuade, distract, and somehow avoid the cold hard truth.  That it comes to all of us.  And only a handful have the opportunity to control and decide their final outcome.  The rest of us either revel in our lives and love them so much that we never want to die, or, like myself, are cowards who don't know why they pull back.  I don't know what keeps me from that final leap.  What stops me from holding my hand to the fire.  But it makes me ashamed.  Ashamed that I think about it.  Ashamed that I lack the conviction to go through with it.  Ashamed to tell anyone that I wish I wasn't so afraid.  Ashamed to tell people that I want to die.  And don't.  And those that have never been there can't possibly understand.  What it means to stand on that edge, and walk away disgusted with yourself.  Not happy that you are still alive, but ashamed that you turned your back and skulked off like a loser. 

Too Long; Didn't read.  Masturbatory self promotion.  Attention Seeking.  Maybe all of those things.  You either understand this.  Or you won't.  Either way I'm not here to try and convince you that my experience is right.  But it is real.  The arguments for extinguishing oneself are also real.  And carry more weight than the arguments for self preservation.  But still I pull back.  And walk away wishing someone else could have held my hand to the fire, pushed me in front of that bus, or helped me fix my resolve.  To end the end.  I just hope when I do meet death I see in her a long lost friend.  Someone I've known and waited for.  Oh we'll have stories, and tales about all the time we've been apart.  And there in her embrace the pain, the fight, the effort, and the exhaustion will finally resolve into peace, and quiet.