I Tell My Therapist I Don’t Want To Die Today
By Ari Eastman
“No, I don’t want to die,”
I tell her.
She clears her throat,
asks for clarification.
I try to explain.
My words seem stuck somewhere I can’t reach.
I sound sticky,
like I swallowed five marshmallows whole,
didn’t even stop to chew.
I try to tell her how I wanted to stop living.
Once,
back then.
Which is why I’m here,
I suppose.
My low has leveled out,
for now.
I try again.
No,
not die, exactly.
Just not be here.
Be in this body that requires so much ache.
A sickening difference that doesn’t make sense,
Something I have tried to explain
in conversations with different therapists,
Beautiful women with multiple degrees
hanging on porcelain walls.
“But I don’t want to die, today.”
I tell her.
“Why?”
And realize I don’t have a very good answer.
I want my disease
to show itself
in some sort of logical way.
But instead,
I just feel okay
when I feel okay.
It’s like she’s still wanting something.
And I’ve never known what it is.
So I start talking.
I tell her about my ex,
or Pop-Tarts,
My dead father,
Anything.
All of it.
Because I just don’t have a good enough answer.
I don’t have the right things to say.