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majority of those who do carry it through have threatened
to do so, and they’ve talked about it over and over. There
are also, however, those who have never talked about it.
“I think I can recognize a suicide when they walk through
the door to my office,” she says, adding: “And you’re not
one of them.”
I sigh, I don’t know if from disappointment or relief. But
then I realize one minor detail:
“But I’ve never been to your office,” I tell her.
She remains silent, the reference to her work darkens her
expression, shrouding it in doubt. For days she’s been
telling me that she lacks perspective when it comes to me.
The strong bond between us doesn’t allow her the
detachment she needs to assess how I’m doing: She can’t
treat me as a patient because I’m a friend, and she can’t
treat me as a friend because she sees a potential patient in
me.
Yet, perhaps she’s right when she says she doesn’t think I’m
suicide material. Though it’s not something I ever plan, I do
have constant recourse to a powerful weapon for keeping
my death wish in check: words.Words can sculpt an idea
and shape it until it becomes a manageable paste, a soft,
manageable suicide paste, increasingly less serious,
increasingly more comical. Words strip the death wish of