March 15, 2015:  11 Days Pre-Diagnosis

He asked for something simple:  His wife's name done in careful calligraphy. It was nothing unusual and certainly not outside the realm of her talent. And yet, when she set about inking his skin with the simplistic symbol of love, the tremors in her hands made it everything but possible. He asked if she was alright. His concern was kind and compassionate. Perhaps, if she had paused to be rational, she would not have perceived it as acknowledgment of a failure  --  another addition to the list of things that she had gotten wrong.

She had been quietly unraveling at the seams. His question, however well-intentioned it might have been, was the thing that split her apart completely. What the fuck did he know, she had snarled, as if he had attacked her capacity to do her job. He was nothing, she had asserted, a handful of cash or a credit card;  he knew nothing.

It wouldn't be until the moment a seven day leave of absence was forcibly suggested to her that she would recognize her outburst as anything less than logical.

March 21, 2015:  5 Days Pre-Diagnosis

There was a half emptied glass of Jameson and a full bottle of Seconal on her bedside table. She had yet to touch either one of them. It would be so simple, she mused, and no one would likely find her in time to jolt her back into the basest definition of a life. She would sleep without waking. All of her pain would subside. She would finally, at long last, feel nothing.

Still, as angry as she was, that was one thing she could never have done to him. It mattered very little, that nagging suspicion that he would feel no remorse at its outcome, because some hopeless piece that she couldn't extract continued to care.

And so she nursed a single Seconal down with a swig of whiskey and willed herself to sleep.

March 26, 2015:  The Day Of

Her eyes were fixated on the trash can. He had to cross her line of vision to draw her attention away from it and to himself.


With her gaze on his face, he seemed satisfied with returning to his seat, one leg crossed lazily over the opposite knee.

"As I was saying."

His pen turned thoughtlessly between his fingers. It was distracting, she thought, and he seemed to read her mind. The thing that temporarily held her attention clattered immediately onto the face of his legal pad. She returned her eyes to the solemnity of his expression. It must be a gift, she considered, masking one's emotions the way that he did. His voice drew her back into the moment.

"You seem to be suffering from borderline personality disorder. Over the course of our sessions .."

Nothing that followed that trio of words truly reached her.

She was crazy after all.