Guilty that my depression, if it can even be called that (I wonder sometimes) isn't as bad as others. Such a stupid thing to worry about, but it keeps going around in my head now.

I mean, I've thought about suicide in the past, but never been especially serious. I'm afraid, honestly. It's too final, too permanent. And honestly, the pitiful mental life of fantasies and mindless video watching and internet surfing are enough to keep me here, for some weird reason. I guess I can't completely give up on the idea that things might change, and if they don't, there's always the vicarious life.

God, I'm pathetic. I'm too much of a coward to even die.

And this when I've been otherwise having a fairly good day of physical recovery. This is what I mean. My thoughts will kill me unless I remain on the run from them, ignore them and push them down, bury them in work, imagination, and interaction. Because I'm too afraid to quit just yet; the what-ifs and possibilities, even if they only exist in my head, keep me going, however mechanically.

I'm sorry. I don't know what for, I'm just sorry.