Elliott Smith died this year. So did June Carter and Johnny Cash. The Murder City Devils broke up. American Steel broke up. I died.

I've been on the verge of suicide for six months now, and it's tearing my boyfriend apart. I talk openly, honestly with my therapist about my suicidal ideation and drug abuse, use and destruction. I went to a firing range today to shoot a gun for the first time. It was scary, exciting but lacking the catharsis I was expecting. It never occured to me to use it on myself, but in retrospect, I somehow wish it had. I'm not looking for martyrdom or pity. If I do end up doing myself in, it will wreak havoc, no - worse, on those close to me. I have no sick perverse idea that I would be doing anyone a favor but myself. It would be the final selfish act in a life typified by selfish and self-destructive behaviour. But does that make it the wrong decision? I haven't made one... yet. I don't know if I will ever be able to do it. I don't know if I will ever really want to do it. But I dream sometimes, of an end - to what, I'm not quite sure. But an ending fitting of my life's narration. I don't want to be a statistic. I want to be human, and that is what eludes me in life. Maybe in death, I can claim that possesion, that faculty, but I am so far away, always. I reveal myself at times, here, but I don't have an answer. I don't have the insight Elliott Smith had. I don't have the perseverence, the stoicism of Johnny Cash. I don't have the power, the rage of Spencer Moody. I am not a man, but a boy in the trappings of a body.

This was written by one of Smith's former roommates: 'As roommates, we were a great match if you like to be depressed all the time--drink too much, smoke too many cigarettes and take pills occasionally. It was perfect. It seemed like he was addicted to being sad. I think he worried that if he wasn't sad, he wouldn't be able to write songs anymore.'

This describes me perfectly.