Please note that this blogging therapy post frivolously discusses suicide, therefore, depending on how you’re wired, you might not want to read it.
In a polite conversation with a stranger today, I was asked the dreaded question, How are you? I realise the only socially acceptable answer is Fine, but I’m not too keen on white lies. After a prolonged silence, during which I was cluelessly groping for a suitable answer, I got it and responded in a non-committal manner, As per usual.
The question always makes me mildly desperate. I’m as could be expected from a depressed person who isn’t too good at dealing with it. I’m used to being high-achieving, not depressed to the point that I spend an hour coaxing myself into the simple task of getting up from bed in the morning.
I did get up, eventually, and on the way to the bathroom, I got a brilliant idea. I thought it would be nice to slit my wrists and fall asleep and not to wake up. I quite like falling asleep. I don’t particularly like waking up. However, before you panic, rest assured I quickly rejected the thought because that would require me to wash my hair, shave and put on some make-up to be a presentable corpse, and I couldn’t be bothered.
I really wish my psychiatrist gave me the good pills. At my next scheduled appointment, I need to tell her that I saw through her trick of prescribing me placebo and that it doesn’t work for me. I don’t particularly trust my psychiatrist because she has fewer academic degrees than I. Kidding (about the non-trust part, not about the degrees, that’s true). It’s a fun fact, I guess.