I can probably count on one hand the number of days of my adult life that have passed without me wishing, for at least a brief moment, that I were dead.

I’m not suicidal. I don’t ever seriously consider taking my life. Yet there have been countless times when I have dearly wished nothing so much as that my life had simply never existed.

We’re not talking embarrassment here, like when you’re so humiliated you want to die. Instead, it’s an overwhelming sorrow, an intensely oppressive force that creates a certainty that I am without worth and that my presence merely takes up space. At such times, I feel totally defeated, as if merely going on takes more than I can give.

Sometimes this feeling can last for hours, or off and on for days. Fortunately, most of the time it lasts only a brief period – 20-30 minutes, maybe - before I’m able to reason with myself and force myself to go on.

I know why this happens; it’s related to events that happened when I was growing up, and I’m happy that I’ve made progress to where I’m not paralyzed for hours on end any more. My life can be very difficult for me, but I also know there are many ways in which I am much more fortunate than some other people. Life is about struggle; while I don’t always overcome this personal struggle, I’m privileged to know what my struggle is, what causes it and how I can work to overcome it for the day.