“Doctor, I will die if I do not commit suicide”, said the man reclining on the couch. He was supine and had both his hands placed straight up past his shoulders. He smelled of something horrible.
The doctor was sick of these outrageous claims and wished that for once his patients spoke the truth, so he asked, “How?” The patient perked up and sat staring straight into the psychiatrist’s face, “What do you mean how? That shouldn’t be the question.” As soon as he sat up the horrible smell had gone, perhaps it was the armpits.
Why not? It’s not an easy thing to do. The preparation itself is so killer that sometimes you feel like abandoning the plan and just killing yourself. And the suicide notes, their syntax and grammar; you have to pay respect to so many people and decide the addressee(s), that it’s tiring. Someone will surely feel left out. And you just can’t die without paying the bills. Have you imagined what it feels like to explain three maxed-out credit cards to your wife, only to be curtly replied to, “You just couldn’t do it any other month, eh? No, you would just have to try to die now. You sure do know how to spoil a Rotary club invitation.” The golf clap after that statement hurts. And even if you did execute it, have you even imagined the consequences of failure? You would be shamed and ashamed. Your wife would declare you worse than your haircut. People would take great trouble sending postcards with abandoned hangman games. Not only does it take meticulous planning, but the sheer amount of luck it requires, no sir, just one look at you and I suggest you give up this venture.
Doctor, you’re really messed up.
Hmm, I know. I mean my therapist didn’t exactly say so but I’m intelligent enough to gather what he meant when he said that my Chinese birth year was the lemming. We don’t know the human body, even after thousands of evolutionary years it still sends mixed signals. I have back pains when I’m tense. Our body is a mystery.
Wow, you are not making any sense, you are a poet.
But I really am.
You are? Maybe some day I will listen to your poetry.
What about today?
What about that? No, it is I who should be unleashing my poetry on you, I paid for this session goddammit. You are worse than Portnoy.
Oh that’s it, it’s about the money then. And I thought we were opening up.
You are, I am still contemplating suicide and your session has wounded me up so much that I do not know if by jumping from a building I’ll crash and die or simply bounce off like a coil. Shame on you doctor.
Our time’s up. Can you make it next Thursday instead of Tuesday?
Yes, sure doctor.