I am very ashamed to admit it, but a day does not go by that I don't ponder my demise at my own hands. The pain is so damn awful, and I feel like I am stuck in a world that no longer has a place for me. By that, I mean that working and providing for my family is a requirement, but each day of work involves nothing short of monumental suffering. This is no way to live.

The real genesis of my suffering is a profound sense of hopelessness. My will to survive causes me to think that "there must be a solution" that, while not totally elimininating my pain, will at least restore a reasonable quality of life. But at a cognitive level, I also am keenly aware that those options may include what mathmeticians call the null set, as in none.

I have tried nearly every prescription ever mentioned on this site for my 20 years since this damn diagnosis, and none have done much of anything for my pain. Supplements, ointments, everything. So...what am I supposed to hang my hat on? What is supposed to be the genesis of my hope and faith when the compounds that they prescribe today (with one or two exceptions) are the same as were prescribed initially 20 years ago? Neurontin, Elavil, etc?

I am not trying to minimize other people's problems, but when, for example, someone has a relationship problem, such an issue can be overcome one way or the other over time (albeit with much pain and suffering in the interim). How is my PN to be resolved over time so that I retain the will to carry on? Has science given me any reason to be optimistic? Cell phones over 20 years are infinitely better. Care for PN? Not so much.

Now, I do not have any specific plan to take my life. I have three beautiful boys and a lovely wife. What is incredibly sad, however, is that despite all the wonderful things in my life, this one monster called PN outweighs literally everything else such that I think everyday just about making the pain go away.

It's just that contemplating your demise and wishing sometimes when you go to bed that you would not wake up in the morning is no way to live. The despair has changed the person I am. People can see it, sense it, feel it. I have not performed like I otherwise would have in my career, and I haven't been as good of a father and husband as I wish I was, because while I fight like heck to not let this disease tear me down, the truth is that it has and does, one day at a time. It has changed me and who I am, and I am angry at it for that. The funny person who had so much ambition and energy is suffering a slow, protracted metaphorical death at the hands of a dreadful disease about which few are even aware. I don't know if that makes me more sad or angry.