the checklist

D had his monthly visit with the psychiatrist this morning and while I sat in there, listening to her go through the rote list of questions--any thoughts of hurting yourself or others? hearing any voices or noises?--I thought, seriously, is there anyone, no matter how sick they are, who doesn't know that the "right" answer to them is no? The only time anyone is ever going to say yes is if they really, really want help. So, how do you catch the people who want to kill themselves or their neighbors because it seems like the best idea or because the voices are telling them to? There's got to be a better system.

Anyway, then I was thinking, as you do, about the times in my life that I have had, as they say, suicidal ideation. The time I thought about it most clearly and longingly was during my first bout of real depression, when I was fourteen. And the only reason I never actually made an attempt then was because I was sure that if I could just survive to be an adult, things would be better, and life would be all rainbows and kitten orgasms. Oh, it is to laugh. But I guess that's what reaching adulthood gives you, if not rainbows and kitten orgasms: perspective. After a certain sheer number of bad things happen to you and you live through them, you realize that you can live through anything and that life cycles, such that bad times come and go and good times come and go, and if you just hang in there, you'll be on the upside again. Eventually.

So then I was reminiscing about what exactly I thought my wonderful, happy adult life would look like when I was 14. I thought that I would live in NYC in a tiny but fabulously cute apartment and write for Glamour, where I would wear adorable floral print Gunne Sax dresses (ha!) and tights to work everyday, and walk for miles. I couldn't conceive, at 14, a future life with husband or children yet, or even, I don't think, a boyfriend, (nevermind second contractor husbands, step grandchildren or crown molding) but I had this fantasy glamorous writing life all planned for myself and I had to stay alive long enough to get there.

In another bit of irony, my friend L had a roommate M freshman year of college who kind of went on to live out *my* fantasy. L and M had a prickly, difficult relationship, though they did become friends. At some point when we were all in our late 20s or so, and M was living in NYC, freelance writing with an article just published in Glamour (even by then, that still impressed the fuck out of me), and involved with some much older man, L wanted to meet up with her when she was in New York for some other reason, and M either blew her off or met up with her just very briefly. L was devastated, with the, omg, why does M hate me now? thing going on in her head, but it was obvious to me from what she said, that M was just miserable and stressed, probably living very much hand-to-mouth, and having relationship problems. I was pretty unhappy myself at that point, but not so much that I couldn't appreciate the fact that someone who had my teenage fantasy life was just as bad off.

Perspective.

Also, the lack of a theme and a point in the preceding will explain to you why no one has ever paid me to write for their high-circulation women's magazine. In case you were wondering.

xoxo