Therapy took an unexpected turn last evening as we turned toward the topic of mortality. For various reasons and with various addictions, I do not take care of myself to the extent I should. I smoke, I don’t exercise as much as I should, and I suffer from various eating disorders. Yet, in spite of all of this, I am still alive and not too unwell. I tend not to be grateful for the luck in my life. I’m bipolar, often with severe and life-threatening depression, but I have access to mental health care. I’m alone yet I’ve built an online empire. One day I will die though, and I suspect my life expectancy would place my death in my 40s with the way I live this life, but for now I am vibrant. Just because I am alive and well does not mean that everyone else is, however, and last night I found out that my therapist could be taken from me by the same force of Chance that keeps me alive somehow. The loss may or may not come and it may or may not be imminent, but it is eerie to be placed in a position that I never thought possible: a state of concern and worry regarding another human life.
Now, I must state up front that I have no reason to believe that my concern is remotely similar to that of the neurotypical under