I hope you didn't

Tonight, as I was putting I. to bed, I was thinking about jumping through the window and down 3 floors to the cement. I wondered how I would look flopping around on the sidewalk. or would I be more cinematic, and just stop still, with a photogenic tell-tale trickle of blood coming snaking down from the corner of my mouth? Then, when I was giving F. her bath, I wondered what kinds of pills were in the medicine chest. But I don't like the idea of ******* myself with pills. Then, after the plunging through the window fantasy, I was thinking about getting F. to bed, sharpening a knife, and getting into the bathtub to slit my wrists. I don't know why people get in the bath to slit their wrists, but it must cut down on the mess. If I didn't live in a city where *** ownership is illegal, I may have bought a *** by now and shot myself. That's what I keep saying to myself: I'm going to shoot myself. But it means a long trip on public transportation to the suburbs, and then I have to buy the thing. I could use a credit card. Would there be a background check and a waiting period first? Maybe. That would put a damper on things. Then there's the problem of where to do it. Blowing your brains out would make a terrible mess (F. is calling for me now from the bathtub - poor little girl with a depressed father), and how do you do it in a private way if you have gone miles on the bus to buy the *** in the first place? Or maybe you just go to the most public place you can think of and pull the trigger. I don't know. God, I hope the counseling service calls me back tomorrow for some treatment. It was like a week ago that I went in for my intake interview, and I've been on a downward spiral since then. I wish I could have gone in right away for more treatment. I think I'm more depressed than they said I am. By the way, have you finished your dissertation? Failing your defense really kicked the **** out of you.