text: Life stretched on in all its crushing dreariness. He felt trapped: by his choices, by his body, by his brain. “Tim Carter?” called the nurse. That was him. “Room 7” she said. Well, he thought, let’s get some help. Or some answers, at least. He wrapped on the door. From inside he heard a muffled: “come in!”. The doctor was sat behind a computer: he looked like Bob Ross in a labcoat. “Mr, er, Carter is it?” he asked, squinting at his computer screen. “Yes, uh, that’s me” said Tim, pulling his seat nearer to the desk. “Well, what can I help you with?” “I, uh, well basically...I’ve been feeling bad recently. Like, really bad. I built up this routine for myself - you know, exercise, art, work, sleep, meals - but even that’s stopped working. I keep wanting to cry all the time, I’m just...just a fucking mess you know?” The doctor took off his spectacles. He looked at Tim with a father’s sympathy. “And have you been on antidepressants?” “Yeah, but they’ve not been working...I’ve tried them all at this point” “And have there been any big changes in your life recently?” “No, none I can think of...there’s no logical reason I should feel this way” “How about drink, or drugs? Do you do them?” “Well, yeah, I mean, I used too, they helped for a bit, but then they stopped working. So I don’t bother anymore.” “I see...so you’ve got a routine, you’ve tried all the antidepressants, you avoid drink and drugs, and there’s no logical reason for you to feel this way, am I right?” Tim nodded. “Have you thought about killing yourself?” “No...I mean, sometimes, fuck, I don’t know. Not all the time, anyway” “I mean...have you *considered* killing yourself? As an option?” “What...what do you mean?” “Well, like I’ve said, you’ve tried everything else, suicide might be the best bet at this point. I’ll write a referral for Dignitas if you’d like?” “Wait, what, no, *what the fuck*? Why are you telling me this?” “Look at it this way Tim - you don’t mind if I call you Tim, do you? - you said so yourself, there’s no logical reason for you to feel this way! You’ve tried everything! It’s quite obvious that, mental healthwise, you’re fucked. Sorry, but that’s just how it is. CBT would be like using a bucket to plug a sinking ship; it’s just not feasible. So why postpone the inevitable?” “But, you’re a doctor, Jesus Christ! You’re meant to help people get better!” “And I am, Tim, I really, really am” he said wearily “don’t you see? What is life, if not the pursuit of happiness? And if you’re always going to be *locked out* of life’s joys then what’s the point of carrying on? Do you really want to have this conversation repeated for the next five, ten, twenty years? Must you be like Sisyphus, doomed to repeat your burden for all eternity?” “Dude, I don’t even know what the fuck you just said. Isn’t there, like, I don’t know, some new drug? Some new therapy, even?” “Yes, probably...and you’d be on it, for a bit, and you’d feel better, for a bit, but then you’d build up a tolerance, or some new incident would come along, wrecking everything, setting us back to square one. Aren’t you sick of the skipping record that is your life? You’re a broken bird, you’re stale crisps, you’re the end bit of the loaf...the best you hope for is a few for is a few isolated peaks of happiness, maybe, in an eternity of gloom” “Fuck you, dude. My life has value.” “Yes, but what is value unless it’s recognised? I could say this pen is worth £100, but neither of us choose to believe it, so it isn’t true! You are incapable of perceiving worth in yourself; ergo, your life has no value” Tim stood up angrily. He’d had enough. “You know what? I think you’re the one who’s bitter, broken and useless. You can keep your judgements. I’m going to carry on living, if only to spite you!” Tim stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut. The doctor smiled.