Still writing down notes, without lifting her head, she asked:

"Do you blame yourself for what happened on the bridge that day?"

"Who else is there to blame?" I replied.

"The terrorists involved, they are to blame." Her tone was so confident I couldn't help but scoff at her.

"You can tell yourself that if you want to." I shrugged.

She paused after what I had said and tapped her pen on the journal she was writing in.

We were going around in circles for months. Although she hid her actual words behind a mask of professionalism, her facial expressions were the only thing that proved she was human. Once in a while, I'd see that look of frustration. She wanted this hour to be over just as much as I did.

Feeling she had reached a dead end, she steered the session in a new direction.

"Last week, you told me you were having suicidal thoughts. Have they improved?"

"I'm not suicidal," I argued.

She put down her pen and crossed her leg over the other.

"My apologies. I was mistaken. Could you explain what you mean by that?"

She leaned forward, proving she was paying close attention to the words I was about to say. I nodded.

"Someone who is suicidal wakes up and thinks, 'Should I kill myself today? How could I do it? Should I slit my wrists? Or tie a noose and hang myself from it?'

"I don't do that," I said.

"I wake up, shower, and brush my teeth just like everybody else."

"I'll make coffee, black, one sugar. I take it outside, where I can light my cigarette and watch the sunrise. Just as the light starts to peak over the skyline, that's when I'd think to myself..."

"I hope I die today."

Dana spoke in a tone of pity.

"Wanting to end your own life and wanting to die, Do you believe those two things are different?"

Before I could answer, the alarm buzzed to let us know our time was up.

I left without hesitation or an answer.