Whenever I come out of a sharp bout of suicidal ideation, I get into a mood where the basic truths of suffering and endurance, of meaning and survival, become profound and sacred. Even knowing that my elders and betters understand this more thoroughly than I do does not make me feel ashamed for treating this knowledge as a sublime new discovery because it is knowledge I have suffered for and that I have earned.
I will endure. Not for false promises that things will improve, because they may not. It does not always look better in the morning. It does not always look better with friends to help. It does not always look better after a shot of rum. And if it does look better, that may be an illusion, setting me up for an even greater fall. There is no certainty, no promise of a better future, no guarantee that life will ever be better than the utter misery I find myself in whenever this mood strikes me. There is nothing I can do to change this, to bring confidence into my life.
So I endure to avoid certainty. Because if I die, it will never look better.