Prosthetic legs, please. Preferably titanium.

I've never been suicidal before. I've been drowning in depression. To the point of being catatonic, but I've never felt so much heaviness that I actively sought death.

Something about this year, though. Something about the added burden to the responsibilities of being a husband.

Before, any emotional turmoil was like beatings ending in broken bones. Incredibly painful. This, this was like looking down at your body after an especially nasty encounter, and not seeing your legs. Instead, you see your intestines spilled out where your legs should be. You can't imagine ever recovering. Ever being whole, complete, functional again. You wait, anticipating death's mercy. But it doesn't come. You should be dead by now. There's no way you should be able to survive this. Nobody should dare expect you to. The pain is so overpowering in its rawness, it's like you're choking on a cow's fresh heart, after it's been slapped against a cactus and dropped in the sand. Like you're a soul-scorched vampire drowning in a sea of blood.

A person in such a situation may conceivably find a way, just enough willpower, to drag their self to the cliff's edge. And over.

I just wanted to walk into the water and drift away. Like a broken walking stick, or arrow, or bow. My purpose lost.

It was a beautiful day, even I could see that. As such, the beach was overpopulated with swimmers, all too happy to deprive me of my leave.

That's when my survivor kicked in. I called for help from the professionals. Let's hope they find my legs. Or give me some titanium ones.