I feel as though I’m on a death march – a long, grueling, weary march to an unknown destination, with no idea whether I can make it. In a death march, if you stop marching, you die. That’s what it feels like.
For many of us, psychiatric illness is fatal, ending in suicide. Despite everything, help isn’t always enough. Tormented beyond bearing, misunderstood, often rebuffed by the people who could be trying to help us, we may turn to that last desperate act, hoping by it to find relief.