To the "counsellor" who said my depression wasn't real: Get bent.

I had the intention of killing myself on Sunday. You judge whether this counts as an attempt.

I had a very bad pain night the previous night, just from sitting on the toilet. The next morning, I typed up a suicide note and a will, waited for the attendant to come and go and then dropped off my note off at the church for Father Lindsay. (I don't know if he ever read it).

I then headed out to the Ottawa River with the intention of remaining there until I died of starvation and thirst. I passed the time by thinking of all the friends who would be mad at me for doing this and thinking how scared and sad I was. I actually started singing "Onward Christian soldiers" over and over again, just to bring me some comfort. (I'm a hermit and normally too shy to sing). A passing motorist actually heard me and praised my singing. I sat there for 5 hours and no one came. (I wasn't sure if I wanted someone to come or not) Sat there for 5 hours staring at the Parliament buildings and singing.

It got colder, wetter and darker. It started to pour. I was soaked to the skin. I started to shake. Both hips were set off in their agony.

I virtually burned out my battery to get to where I was going. I first sought shelter under a nearby overhang of a Museum. Then when the pain got to be too much, I went inside the museum and tried to call the church. No answer. I finally told the museum staff the situation. That my chair was low on power and I had no way of getting home. (I said nothing of the real reason I was out there). A security guard came (I locked myself in the bathroom for five minutes panicking from that alone, where they couldn't see my panic), and filled out a taxi chit and sent me home.

Only Doug and Father Lindsay know what happened out there, not even my shrink knows yet. Father Lindsay is talking to me. Doug hasn't spoken to me since I told him. He may never speak to me again

I spent today at the church, singing in the bathroom at the top of my lungs. (I'm too scared to sing in front of people). I couldn't stand the silence anymore. And when I got home, I found a card for a city Public Health Inspector on my door. My attendant thinks it would be a real swell idea if I got cathetharized once a week instead of once a month. (For me, it's like being raped and it hurts.) This same attendant is telling me that I am "letting" myself fall into depression; as if it's my fault. (Let's see how she would handle pain for 16 hours a day, in virtual social isolation.)

Maybe I shouldn't put this here, but I am deeply disturbed by what happened. The memories are fresh and graphic and I don't feel I can face anyone right now because of what I have done. I wasn't strong enough or good enough and look what happened. I feel lower than dirt and I will be living with this for a long time.

And I haven't even seen my shrink yet! He doesn't know that I tried to slash my wrist in Dec, or turned my heat off in my apartment for two days. I buried those memories. I remember only from written transcripts of e-mail correspondence with a depression support group. And that was when I only had the dislocated hip to worry about. This is the main course.

I said the shrinks didn't scare me. ANYONE with the power to lock me up scares me, especially to those with ties to social services. I fight very hard to maintain control in front of these people. I am scared to %^%& in front of these people for fear of angering them. I spent one and a half years in their care. I've blocked out that memory too, but I must be scared for a pretty good reason.

My shrink is about to find out just how serious the situation is and when he does...God help me.