Another coffee would probably have helped. I could’ve gone to bed earlier last night. I’ve too much editing to do before a midday deadline. An image, which I wish would seem pleasant but doesn’t, reminds me of where I can’t go, at least not for several more weeks if not months. At seven in the morning the source of the problem seems clear: my commitment to therapy, to the couch, to the psychoanalytic process, to my analyst. This sentence disappears as soon as it arrives, or maybe I just tell myself it does. Our session isn’t until late afternoon. I want it. I need it. It’s the source of all my current problems. There I go again: blaming what’s in fact helping me. I’m seated at my desk, my laptop before me, and I’m about to start editing when my body seems to say: No! I’m on my feet and moving toward the kitchen. It’s never too late for another coffee. I know that caffeine itself can’t save me from myself. The thoughts and images and emotion that threaten to engulf me are more real this morning than the midday deadline. Work can wait. Such an inner statement would normally overwhelm me. Now, at 7:03 am, I’m relieved. Something inside of me finally makes sense. I don’t want to throw my psychoanalytic life out the window. That’s precisely what I don’t want to do. Patients in psychoanalysis have often been called analysands. I am one. A destructive, unconscious, part of me wants to put an end to my commitment to psychotherapy. I’ve prepared a coffee while these sentences write themselves in my mind. Editing awaits me. The rest of the day will last much longer than the coffee I’m about to drink. I have a future. The end has yet to arrive. Death is in the future. But I wanted to destroy myself today.