I am counting down the days. It's little over a week left--ten days. Then I will go to a neighbouring town and see a person with almost the exact same name as mine (it's ridiculous). That person will most likely ask me about how I feel. What I was like when I was a child. What I do during the days. What I find difficult in my life.
I will reply and struggle to reply and study what's behind the person talking and wonder if I can really say that out loud. I will look at them and say, I'm fine, and then avoid their eyes when they ask if I ever think of suicide.
I shouldn't want them to find something, something disabling about me. But I do. I want them to say to me, yes, you do show symptoms of this or that. Because it will be on paper. It's not supposed to be this difficult. It will be a relief, a promise.
But on that paper, it will also say: This is who you are now. This is part of your DNA. It won't help if the right person loves you or if you read the right book or if you move to the right city.
A promise.
It will be comforting, nevertheless. And they might be able to help me. This is how you love. This is how you feel less lonely. This is how you become loveable.
This is how you live.
So I am counting down the days until I get to go to a psychiatric surgery in a neighbouring town, to see a person with almost the exact same name as mine.
(Holding on to promises.)
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