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"Suck it up, Sarah:' I tell myself. "you are making amends
here."

I look into my closet. I don't want to wear what I wore last
time. Those clothes are only for that day, to show respect for someone
that I really loved. They are not for David.

I'm not sure how dressy I should look. I don't want to look
any more like an outsider than I already would, but no matter how many
dresses and turtlenecks and khakis and pantsuits I tryon, it doesn't
change me. Or even with all the eye-shadow and blush and eyeliner and
lipstick combinations, every time I look in the mirror-

I can see David in my face. They'll know. I shouldn't feel so
bad that this is the last time I'll see any part of him. It's not my fault that
I never saw him, but at some point, it is.

I straighten my hair, grazing my forehead only twice. My
bangs are pinned to the left, the rest of my hair in a big clip. I look like I
am going to work.

He was off his medication for a year before he died. They said
he tried everything, when we all really know

No one ever really tries everything.

He could have just tried not killing himself But these are
minor quibbles.

Sure, he tried electroconvulsive therapy. But for how long?
How often? Every drug and treatment? Seriously?

There are SSRIs, MAO Is, mood stabilizers, next-generation
anti-psychotics, music therapy, acupuncture, meditation, fish oil tablets,
journaling, St. John's wart, marijuana, hormone supplements, gardening,
rebirthing therapy, getting a haircut, cognitive-behavioral therapy, com-
munity service, group therapy, psychoanalysis, support groups, vegan
diets, therapy dogs, Ecstasy, LSD, off-label anti-convulsive medications,
blueberries, light-box treatments for seasonal affective disorder, cardio-
vascular exercise, art therapy, past-life regression, religious counseling,
and drama therapy.

And you're telling me that a tennis-playing, college-educated philoso-
pher, writer, and professor tried all of that shit at least once and none of

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