Ways and Means

“You’re not making suicide plans, are you?”

The therapist, the general practitioner, the psychatrist with the lovely pastel pills–they all want to know this. I suspect this is less out of personal interest than it is about ass-covering (“Well, she never came out and SAID that she was planning to fling herself into a vat of White-Out, so…”) but still, it’s a disconcerting thing to ask of a person.

Look, I’m not gonna kill myself. Yes, I’m clinically depressed, have been for about a year, and really have been since March-ish. Yes, I sigh overmuch. Yes, I read a lot of Shakespeare (chock full 'o suicide) and as of late have experienced a stream of consciousness more appropriate to a beret-wearing person in attendance at Poetry Slam Night in the Overly Wrought Café. But no, I’m not going to snuff my own hand. I have a lease, and a perm appointment on Friday. My life is hashed up enough already and I refuse to make matters worse by exiting it with ratty hair.

I have no idea how I’d do it, anyway, should this actually begin to sound like a really good idea.

DROWNING: Ditching oneself in ocean sounds like a romantic and dramatic choice, but on second thought there is some seriously disgusting slime out there. If you’re going to do it, do it in a manner that’s not going to involve surfacing with a mollusk clinging to your ass.

OVERDOSE: Who can afford this? You know how many sleeping pills you have to take for this to work? You know how much sleeping pills cost?

This option also involves math, so chances are good that I merely render myself comatose, and that would really bring me down.

JUMPING: Very big heights make me nauseated. I really don’t want my final moments on Earth to be passed in spewage.

HEMLOCK: Yeah, I’ll just drive down to Walgreen’s and pick myself up some hemlock.

DRIVING A CONVERTABLE OVER THE EDGE OF THE GRAND CANYON WITH SUSAN SARANDON IN TOW: I can't stand Susan Sarandon. Of all the faces I want to be the last one I behold before releasing my soul, I certainly don’t want it to be that of a person’s who hangs around Tim Robbins on purpose.

HANGING: Too much work.

RAZOR BLADE: I can’t even shave my armpits in a competent manner, so we’ll just file this one in the “Would Likely Result in Coma” folder.

CARBON MONOXIDE: This seems like the best way to go. Painless, odorless, no blood. You just drift off to sleep. I majored in this in college. However, I live in an apartment, and I don’t have ready access to a garage, and I doubt that trying this in a carwash bay is going to have the same effect.

ELECTROCUTION: There’s always the hairdryer in the bathtub. But the only outlet in my bathroom is way the hell on the opposite wall from the shower, and my dryer has a really short cord. I can’t work like this.

GUNSHOT: Way, way too messy. Also runs the risk of generating bad press for the NRA. If you're a red stater, you just don't want to do that on the way out.

The only viable option, clearly, is sticking with the therapy and the pills and the smiley face stickers on the bathroom mirror. For one thing, I’d miss out on the weekly entertainment of the mental health clinic waiting room. You sit there, you pretend to read, you look around: “Look at that guy. Wonder what’s wrong with that guy? Hey, what are you in for?”

It’s a good time, talking about oneself for an hour. You just do a core dump and another human being has to sit there and listen to it. They’re not allowed to tell you to shut up or change the subject to what an obnoxious dolt their boyfriend is. That's worth your twenty-dollar copay right there. They’re friendship hookers, therapists.

Plus you get nice affirmation every now and again. “Client is well-groomed,” a childhood therapist wrote in my progress log once. See, who else is going to tell you that? “Mary Beth, you’re totally well-groomed today.” If that's not worth living for, I don't know what is.

yay, pills! blondechampagne@hotmail.com