I’m an honorable man. I live a respectable life. I love myself.

These words are not my own thinking. I have bought them at a hefty price. Psychiatrists will never be affordable. They rob you of your money, pretending to gift you priceless thoughts. I stand in front of the mirror repeating these redundant lines.

Twenty times. With ample deep breaths. If only I could muster the guts to say the truth.

I’m a worthless man. I live a tormented life. I hate myself.

But then that would defeat the very purpose of my treatment. I’m not sure why I ever agreed to it in the first place. Isn’t life much more than a bucket of laughs? And what’s all this joy, peace, and self-love nonsense?

If man was so complete on his own, then why marry, have children, and continue to worry of dying of loneliness? Wouldn’t we all be satisfied with who we are and what we have? But that’s not how man is molded.

I speak for myself and on behalf of many others.

The pills, three in the morning – two in the evening, muddle my feelings. They leave me numb in the head, empty in the heart. That’s not a cure to my sadness, it’s a medicinal form of avoidance.

Maybe I’m a victim of circumstance, or a genetical mess, but I will not be told that my thoughts are wrong, my emotions insignificant. I’ve finally decided to take matters into my hands.

Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal.

I’ll die when I’m meant to. I really don’t want to struggle for that. Today is my last session. I don’t need more help. Hope my psychiatrist doesn’t dip into depression.

I bravely recite my new line.

I’m a man, and I’ll live my life all by myself.

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