Near the end of my session with my therapist this morning, she said that she needed to discuss something serious with me.

“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned for her health.

“Yes, I’m alright. Not emotionally, though. One of my patients shot herself.”

My hand went instinctively to cover my heart.

“Oh, I am so sorry J.”

She started to tear up while she gave me a few more details. I didn’t pry, I just allowed her to tell me as much as she felt comfortable with.

“I’d like to ask if you’d sign off on an agreement, that if I start to notice you becoming suicidal again, I can call your husband and discuss it with him.”

I signed it without hesitation.

“I take my job seriously. Not on my watch. Not again. I should have done more, I knew she was in a bad place. I adored her and I adore you as well. I need to keep you safe.”

“You can’t blame yourself, J. You did your best to help her, but in the end her demons overtook her will to fight anymore. It never fully goes away, even on the right medications and therapy. It’s for life, a constant companion.”

Even if you’re lucky enough to start feeling better, it haunts you like a specter.

You remember.

We discussed Chris Cornell a little and how heartbreaking the whole thing is. I can’t help but to think of Kurt Cobain, who I think was beautiful, even as broken as he was.

Maybe because he was so broken.

Suicide can touch anyone, even the rich and famous. It’s an equal opportunity killer.

When I got home I told my husband who seemed fine with the idea, although he has an empathy block when it comes to mental illnesses.

“I gave her your name and phone number. Just in case…”

Just in case…

I saw this on Facebook last night and I’d like to share it with you all.

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