Every time I meet with my psychiatrist, he asks me, “Any thoughts of suicide?”
I never exactly know how to respond, because laughing seems inappropriate. He HAS to ask me that. And I’m grateful for him, and grateful that whatever my kinks might be, I’m not bent in that particular fashion.
Sometimes I want to respond that can’t he see that I’m sitting there? I’m there because I didn’t want to lose another day, even more minutes, to sadness and anxiety, that they steal time I think is rightfully mine, and a miser who counts her pennies doesn’t light fire to her paper bills.
No, sir. We’re having this conversation because I’m the sort of person who wants more, not none, and when my day finally comes at the age of like, 106, I’m still going to be seriously pissed off about it.