I saw my new therapist yesterday. She's a wicked nice 30-something who seems to have her head on straight, and genuinely wants to help in my next stage of therapy work. At this point in my treatment, after several years, I've mostly resolved and closed the books on
November 10, 2014 12:17 AM
Subject line: I’m Dying
I have decided I have a blood clot. It started in my leg and has now moved to my lungs. I will likely die in my sleep. If I do, my ghost will visit often and play the sax just for you.
Image: Melancholy by Marie Constance Charpentier, via Wikimedia Commons
When I heard that Robin Williams committed suicide after suffering from severe depression, I was empathetic. Empathy is defined as the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, something I don’t think people have when they say, “He was selfish,”
“You don't know me but I wrote a novel about you.”
These are the words I shared with him, with a bucket of colorful flowers in my cold hands, two weeks after his funeral.
If you can bear with me, let me share my story.
I was 16, depressed and in the clutches
I was standing outside a deli in Park Slope, Brooklyn on the day I went truly insane. Unemployed and desperate for money, my hobby of scouring the web for free books and reselling them had reached the point of bizarre.
The plan had been simple: find the free book ads online, pick
Pretend that you are an alien. You have never been to this planet before and you know nothing of its technology, cultures, norms, whatever – you don’t know anything about this strange place. You don’t know what the inhabitants of this planet look like, what they do, what they care