I woke this morning but didn't want to. My back was stiff. My legs were sore. Knots riddled my calves and crept up my thighs, and my head pounded. Too many beers, I thought. Too many drinks. But the real reason I didn't want to wake up was because I was tired of waking up.
My mind was shattered. My body was exhausted, and I was depressed. Every day I pray I'll close my eyes for the last and final time.
Of course, I am not alone. Millions of Americans live with depression. It is a common illness. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, 7 percent of the US population has—or will experience—depression in any given year.
But there is more to my depression then sadness, sorrow and changes in my sleep. I live with chronic suicidal ideations. I regularly fantasize about death, and my own demise.
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