“Jean and I are very concerned about you,” he said quietly. “We think you may be quite sick. Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” “I’m not sick,” I responded. “I’m just not smart enough. But questions, yes. Ask me questions.” “Are you feeling down?” “Yes.” “Loss of pleasure in daily activities?” “Yes.” “Difficulty sleeping?” “Yes.” “Loss of appetite?” “Yes.” “How much weight have you lost in the last month?” “About fifteen pounds.” “Do you feel like a bad person?” “Yes.” “Tell me about it.” “Nothing to tell. I’m just a piece of shit.” “Are you thinking of hurting yourself?” I waited
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