All the times I've been dangerously close to suicide seem absurd to me since I found out I'm dying regardless. It's kind of weird that I spent all that time wishing for death and now that my 3 year chances of survival stand at about 15%, I kind of want to... live. A little. We humans are truly bizarre creatures, huh? I don't actively wish for life as I did death, such would be heartbreaking and vain, yet I kind of wish I'd have gotten more out of it over the years. You can prepare to have a gun in your hand, but you can't prepare to be told you have an inoperable heart valve defect.
Then again, I'm not depressed anymore, so I guess I can thank the doctor who gave me the news for making me want more out of life instead of less.
Assuming I really don't have much time left, I know I can't go back. I can try to make the future better but, what future? I work, I move, I learn, I love, I play, and then I drop dead walking down the street? On one hand, what's the point? On the other, what is the point in not, and going the distance to sulk?
Depression is truly a monster. I would rather face down a heart-valve defect ten times over than deal with another long-term depressive bout.