So

when someone in your family commits suicide, you can stay in bed all day with the cat and call the crisis line for the suicide group. The person on the phone has to make sure you are ok, you aren't also suicidal too so they ask questions about your friends (yes, I have some), are you sleeping (no, of course not) and they tell you they are sorry. Then you call for an appointment with a therapist and they ask the same questions except they don't say they are sorry. They want to know if you need an emergency appointment. Wow. It is all so banal.

I feel like a pariah, being stalked by the suicide gene.

I read with my writer friends this Friday. Not suicide poems. Sylvia Plath did a damn fine job with Ariel.