May is in a vile mood. Do not look at me wrong if you cross my path or I just might kick you. Of course, then I'll have fits of self-loathing because I don't really want anyone to feel bad because of me.

Could it be a result of mixing eight prescription medications?

I've been having suicide ideation since I woke up. I'm not sure why. I'm never sure why. Sometimes it just pops into my head like a bingo ball and rolls around all day. Again, I ask: Could it be a result of mixing eight prescription medications? Could it be depression? If I have to put up with this bipolar shit, then where is my occasional expansive mood and feelings of grandiosity? Huh? Why must it always be paranoia, insecurity, sadness, and irritability. Memo to brain...Variety is the spice of life.

There's nothing in particular that's setting me off, but it seems like everything imaginable is getting to me. I take things personally that can't even be personal. How sad is that??

Oh! Could it be from chronic pain??

Paranoia is definitely a bit of an issue today. Maybe it's not that serious and I'm just a garden-variety neurotic. I don't know. I feel distressed because I haven't been very productive lately. It makes me worry that I can't keep up with the rest of the world, everyone is onto me, and I am a total loser, loser, loser.

Every spring, my employer hosts a large cultural event for the community. It's A Big Deal. Over the years, I have designed invitations and posters, written press releases, created promotional materials, program brochures and a public-area display, and more. It occurred to me that this year, I seem to be in a weird position of being asked to give other people my files/samples/copies of these things because those other people have been assigned to do all of those tasks. Each department employee oversees an area of the building on event day, usually in teams of two. This year, a third person was added to my area. It occurred to me that the event is coming up very, very soon, but the other two people have "taken care of everything." I know I'm neurotic, paranoid, and insecure, but still, I'm starting to take this personally. I feel like I've been unceremoniously dumped from my previous roles, and it must be a reflection on me.

I can only conclude that my work on this project, although always prolific, has been deemed unacceptable. That makes me sad. It makes me sad because it just proves that all of my fears about my place in the world are absolutely valid. Tattoo that big L on my forehead, will you please?

Really, it makes me want to kill myself. God knows, I have enough pill-power on hand to knock out a small village, Or cure a smaller village of its mood problems, neuralgia, and pelvic pain.

I hate myself. Always have, always will. Why can't I think and process feelings like a rational, relatively normal person? Why can't my brain keep itself on track? WTF???

I decided that if and when I kill myself (probably to save my long-suffering husband from any more drama), I will post an ad on the Internet and possibly the newspaper before I go. Right before I go. People should know why other people die. My will clearly states there is to be no funeral, so this would be the means to providing closure for those nosey people who need to know what happened. those would be the out-of-touch people.

When I went to the urologist last week, I overheard an unsettling conversation. It was unsettling because it underscored the lack of understanding people have about suicide.

I was waiting for one of the two receptionists to set up a follow-up appointment for me. Next to me, another women was checking in. In a loud whisper, she asked the receptionist, "Is it true? Dr. Ruben died?" The receptionist nodded, and in a conspiratorial tone, the women leaned in a little closer and whispered, "Did he really kill himself? He committed suicide?" I wasn't about to turn and look at her or the receptionist, but they definitely had my attention. Again, the receptionist confirmed the news. The patient shook her head, put her hand on her breast, and said, "But he had everything to live for."

I know I was making that face. It's that face I make when I'm annoyed and trying not to say anything. I get that sort of closed mouth, crooked-jaw, Melanie Griffith thing going on. My first impulse was to blurt out, "How the hell do you know what he had or didn't have to live for? How do you know what he valued? What makes you think that you can even begin to understand--let alone judge--what he did?"

Of course I kept my mouth shut. I took my appointment card and barged out the door into the snowy, wet spring morning.

People just bug the shit out of me lately.