The depression comes in waves. It rushes in and overwhelms you. The wave recedes, builds up and comes crashing back. And down you go. There is only so much of this you can stand.
The only defense you have against the wave are a couple of Xanax you have left so you take them knowing it’s only enough to stop tonight’s wave. What about tomorrow night?
The next day you go to your doctor and ask him for more Xanax but he says you have had your month’s allotment as permitted by the controlled substance law.
It’s so ironic, no not ironic, just stupid. It’s easier to buy a gun in America to kill yourself than to get more Xanax from your doctor which might actually stop you from buying a gun to kill yourself.
Do you see the irony, doctor, I mean the stupidity? All he can say is, that’s the law and there’s nothing I can do about it and you’re tempted to say fuck the law I’ll just buy a gun, but you keep your own counsel because if you say something like that to a doctor maybe he can have you committed to a psych ward which would be a worse hell than the wave that keeps rushing in and overwhelming you.
On the way home you stop by the local gun shop, which ironically — more goddamn irony — is just down the street from the doctor’s office, and you put a 9-mm Glock on your credit card but before you can take possession of the pistol you have to fill out the paperwork which will take several days to be approved in anti-gun New York and you go home Glockless and sure enough the wave comes crashing back that night and this time it’s really bad—