I Battle Depression and Anxiety

There are days when I really regret ending my medication, but by the same token; I don't want to be a zombie, either. I wish I had better choices than not to take it and suffer, or take it but be unable to think or feel. I could take the medication again, but I couldn't function in society. I would just gather dust in a corner with my most redeeming feature being my ability to maintain a steady stream of drool from my lip to lap. That isn't living, that's just existing, and I don't want to return to that state. However, I wasn't plagued with with the overwhelming urge to end my life every five to ten minutes, and there are days when that type of regression appears appealing.
It's frustrating when you don't like the choices in front of you, and you don't feel as though you are in control. Maybe being in control is just as much of a charade as believing that I have the freedom to choose how to live my life in such a way that I can be happy. Perhaps nothing is real beyond the shackles that society binds to us in the grand design of living up to a preordained design.

Here I stand at the precipice of defeat gazing intently into the void below. My own fears and doubts push me ever closer to the edge with the ultimate goal of absolution through annihilation. The only thing that sustains my continued effort at existence is the burden of guilt I bear to avoid causing grief to others.
I venture to think that might be enough of a virtuous cause to persevere, but it does nothing to quell the grievous sorrow festering inside unabated.