When the darkness comes I have indications. Coffee no longer has any affect and tastes terrible. I stop drinking coffee just at the time when I need anything, anything, to give me a lift.

No lift is available. No hug from a lover or friend. No meetings with psychologists or psychiatrists. The dark and well-oiled slide opens before me, inviting me to jump, to explore, to freefall into the care of the horrible angels of Catastrophe and Malice. I’ve learned not to panic. Not to bolt out into the night in search of cocaine.

The night brings the black bastards that appear to have been seething just outside of my field of vision. But no light, no joy, no hope can enter the vortex that is forming around my head. Like a swirling storm of black clouds and lightning, the world around me filled with jackals and thieves. And the only clear path at 3 am when the crescendo begins to blank all rational thoughts like a terrible static roar, it is to go down by the river, back along the path we took together on Sunday, and fling myself into the rocky riverbed below. Join my sister in the plunge. People would understand. I’ve been troubled my entire life.

I am breathing too quickly. Whispered voices are just below the static roar, something, some presence is just outside the glass doors opening onto the balcony. But that fall would definitely not kill me. And that’s the goal here, the annihilation of me.

“It’s murder,” my gentle therapist said. He wasn’t really up for the task at hand. A bit underpowered. A lovely round gay man who must’ve reminded me of my brother. But he was more of a “you’re doing great” therapist. What I needed was a plan, a goal, a direction, a coach more than a cheerleader.

I begin talking myself back from the edge. “Okay, just wait until the sun comes up.” I put another Xanax under my tongue and tasted the familiar bitterness. “A couple more hours and I can go have a big breakfast.” Sometimes, daylight and a large plate of eggs will settle my fears.