It's Kind of a Funny Story

“I’m clinically depressed, you know. I mean, I’m not just . . . down or whatever. I started this new school and I can’t handle it. It’s gotten to a point where it’s the worst it’s ever been and I just don’t want to deal with it anymore.”

“You say you’re clinically depressed. Are you taking medication?”

“I was taking Zoloft.”

“And what happened?”

“I stopped taking it.”

“Ah. That’s probably, you know, a bad idea.”

Keith sounds like he’s just getting started with this whole counseling thing. I picture a thin college-age guy with wire-rim glasses at a desk lit up with a small reading lamp, looking out the window, nodding at the good deeds he’s doing.

“A lot of people run into problems when they, y’know, stop taking their medication.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I just really can’t handle it right now.”

“Do you have a plan for how you would kill yourself?”

“Yes. I’d jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.”

I hear Keith typing something.

“Well, Scott, we aren’t the suicide hotline, but if you like, we have a five-step exercise for managing anxiety. Would you like to try it?”

“Um . . . sure.”

“Can you get a pen and a piece of paper?”

I go to the drawers in the dining room and get a pencil and paper. I take it to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with Keith. The light’s on.

“First, okay? Write down an event that happened to you. That you experienced.”

“Any event?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay . . .” I write on the piece of paper Ate pizza last week.

“Do you have it?” Keith asks.

“Yes.”

“Now, write down, ah, how you felt about that event.”

“Okay.” I write: Felt good, full.

“Now write down any ‘shoulds’ or ‘woulds’ that you felt about the event.”

“Like what?”

“Things that you regret about it, things that you feel would have made it go better.”

“Wait, uh, I don’t think I have the right kind of event.” I furiously erase my first statement, which is marked I. Instead of Ate pizza, I put down Threw up Mom’s squash and then for 2, I write Felt like I wanted to kill myself, all the while telling Keith to hold on, I messed up.

“Just put down ‘shoulds’ and ‘woulds,’” he reassures me.

Well, I should have held down the squash and I would have been full if I had. I put that down.

“Now put down only what you actually had to do in the event.”

“What I had to do?”

“Right. Because there are no such things as shoulds and woulds in the universe.”

“There aren’t?” I’m starting to suspect Keith a bit. For someone in Anxiety Management, he’s giving me an exercise that is fairly confusing and anxiety-provoking.

“No,” he says. “There are only things that could have turned out differently. You don’t have any shoulds or woulds in your life, see? You only have things that could have gone a different way.”

“Ah.”

“You never know what truly would have happened if you had done your shoulds and woulds. Your life might have turned out worse, isn’t that possible?”

“I don’t see how it’s really possible, seeing as I’m on the phone with you.”

“What you really have in life are needs, and you only have three needs: food, water, and shelter.”

And air, I think. And friends. And money. And your mind.

“So the next step in the process is to put down only what you actually had to do in your event, and then compare it to the shoulds and woulds you assigned yourself.”

“How many steps are in this thing?”

“Five. The fifth is the most important. We’re at four.”

“You know, I really, um—” I look at the piece of paper, covered with half-erased scribblings about pizza and squash. “—I think I should talk to the Suicide Hotline people because I still feel really . . . bad.”

“All right,” Keith sighs.

I’m worried that he thinks he’s done a bad job, so I tell him: “It’s okay. You’ve been really helpful.”

“It’s tough with young people,” he says. “It’s just tough. Have you called 1-800-SUICIDE?”

1-800-SUICIDE! Of course! I should’ve known. This is America. Everyone has a 1-800 number.

“That’s Helpline, they’re national. Then there’s Local Suicide Watch . . .” Keith gives another number.

“Thanks.” I write them both down. “Thanks so much.”

“You’re welcome, Scott,” he says. I hit OFF—these are the first calls I’ve made not on the cell phone in a long time—and type in 1-800-SUICIDE.

It’s really convenient that suicide has seven letters, I think.

“Hello,” a woman answers.

“Hi, I . . .” I give her the rap, just like I gave Keith. This woman’s name is Maritsa.

“So you stopped taking your Zoloft?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“You know, you should be on that for . . . a couple months, really.”

“I was on it for a couple months.”

“Some people stay on it for years. At least four to nine months.”

“Well, I know, but I felt better.”

“Okay, so how do you feel right now?”

“I want to kill myself.”

“Okay, Scott, now, you know you’re very young and you sound very accomplished.”

“Thanks.”

“I know high school can be tough.”

“It’s not that tough. I just can’t handle it.”