When I hit a row of days when I don’t want to go anywhere, do anything, or talk to anyone, I become worried.

I am really hard on myself. I should be in a good mood, motivated to do things, cordial to other people, and not crawl into my own little world.

Maybe the antidepressants are starting to falter. Again.

I struggle to dig myself out of that hole, just so I can reassure myself that the medication is still working. I am human after all, and life is difficult. It’s not easy being a happy camper when I don’t feel well, which is about 97.5% of the time.

When I begin the cycle of isolating, I do this thing that might seem disturbing to some people.

I think about wanting to die.

If the idea doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest, I deem myself good to go.

If the idea does appeal to me, then I am in trouble.

I call this “The Suicide Test.” I even told my therapist about it. She liked the idea.

“I have to stay forever diligent,” I explained.

I also have to stay honest, and never stop talking about it even though it often makes people uneasy.

Richard Dreyfuss fully embraces his mental illness. He is my new hero.

No matter how well a medication works, I will always have a certain melancholy. It’s part of my genetic code. It makes me who I am. I need to accept this fate. It’s the reason why I can spend hours reading about morbid things, then go take a nap.

Maybe I am somehow related to Edgar Allen Poe. I don’t know of any other family member who is like me.

It’s okay to hide away from the world for a few days.

Life is difficult.

But I passed the suicide test. As far as I am concerned, I am golden.