My parents didn't teach me about god. The first I heard of religion was on the playground from my little friends. God never existed for me. And all the spirituality I've developed never uses the word, or concept, of "god". "God" is meaningless to me, though I understand when other people use it as a place-holder for "the infinite", "the perfection of the universe", and so on. But for me, there never was a god. I was an existentialist from birth.

But I have a parallel realization, a reoccurring idea that colors how I perceive and live my life:

"Suicide is not an option, so..."

So, I have to keep living. I have to keep walking, keep waking up, keep breathing. As much as I've ever wanted to kill myself -- and this week, today in particular, I might have felt it stronger than ever -- there are a few simple reasons I can't do it. Or, there is at least one reason, and one reason is enough: My parents. I can't justify causing someone else the pain I feel. I guess I haven't reached the level of pain where I am blinded to the pain of others.

Then there's Donna, but somehow it seems the loss of a child would be worse than the loss of a friend. But still, there are (at least) two very good reasons why I can never kill myself. I can sit around fantasizing about it for hours, writing suicide notes in my head and thinking of the perfect way and perfect place to do it, but I can never do it.

When I'm really suicidal, it's hard to move beyond the feeling, to fully accept that it is just not an option. But that is my existential dilemma, like realizing there is no god. I can't kill myself, so now what?

On the one hand, it frees me: everyone who knows me would prefer I did *anything*, rather than kill myself. So anything I do is inherently good, at least a little, because I'm still alive. On the other hand, it traps me. If I believed it were possible, if I didn't flinch at the thought of my mother crying, at least I would know there was a way out.

There is no way out.

So the conclusion is that I'm trapped in life, but I shouldn't be so hard on myself or expect so much, because if I asked Donna or my parents, they'd rather have me alive.

The rejection of suicide seems like a simpler train of thought than the rejection of god, but believe me, it is no less difficult.

Maybe you're wondering why. Well, ever since I can remember, I've been suicidal, to some degree. I'm never depressed -- I'm usually very happy -- but I have no sense of proportion and I move fluidly from euphoric to suicidal, without pausing in between for depression or sadness. For me, it's all or nothing; either I'm ecstatic or I want to die. I've learned not to take my own suicidal thoughts seriously because they are so frequent, and usually meaningless.

But why now, in particular? Just now I had another wave and I don't think it's ever been this bad. I'm impressed that I'm still typing with capitals. So, I used heroin a few times, ended up telling Donna about it, and we came to a mutual decision that I should move into an open room in my friend Pete's house at 23rd and Ankeny. It's a lovely house and a lovely neighborhood, and I'll probably only live here for a few months if I can manage to stay clean again, which hasn't even been that hard. But no matter how nice my room is here, it isn't Donna's house.

Then there's my manager at work, Natacha, who is critical and for some reason doesn't like me. And the fact that when Donna is unavailable, I have no one else to call when Natacha has just made me cry, again, and I'm waiting for the bus after work. There are a few other situations I don't feel like writing about that are causing almost as much pain, situations over which I have no control. Then there is the constant question: what am I doing? What is the point? Why endure *meaningless suffering*? What am I supposed to be doing?

But none of those questions are really important, because if I can manage to accept the premise that I can't kill myself, the questions should answer themselves.