Hmm, I think that the best way to describe what keeps me alive is fear. I can still hear their cries and sobs of a friend on the night of my first attempt when I think about ending it all. And since I failed, I went through the repercussions of feeling horribly sick afterwards, needing to be evaluated, seeing professionals that did not help, being lectured by religious friends and family members and the mental health professionals evaluating me, etc.
Now, I'm years removed from that experience. So many things have changed. I have people that depend on me and people who, amazingly, still care, and I worry what will become of them. I have friends online that I have known for a decade and have never met; they will never know what happened to me if I can't tell them myself. I'm not very moved by the prospects of things maybe getting better in the future, because I've been waiting for almost two decades for that to happen now. But I am worried about how much worse things will get for the people around me in the aftermath of a successful attempt. That makes me want to accept and try to live with the hand I've been dealt, at least, I guess I could say. But I do wonder how much this fear could be stretched and if I'll ever stop caring at some point. It is a little sad that the only reason I'm living is to be an asset to everyone else's lives. I'm supposedly making them so happy by just being here (I don't doubt it), but I cannot figure out how to get some of that happiness for myself, haha.