TW: Take care of yourselves.
Liza wasn't suicidal.
She'd never pondered suicide before the accident.
After, she'd thought about it for perhaps a single half-second. She'd thought that, if everyone else on that plane had gotten the chance to move to the next life, then perhaps it had been a mistake and she was supposed to join them as well.
The idea had quickly been eradicated, replaced by a deep-seeded self-disgust.
How could she be so selfish?
Liza wasn't suicidal, because how cruel and disrespectful would it have been to those who died if she ended the life she was somehow lucky enough to keep in the first place?
No, she wasn't suicidal, even though the many times she'd told this to her therapist, Dr. Tate, didn't seem to convince the woman.
How could she explain it to her? She seemed young and oblivious—or possibly arrogant—and clearly didn't understand what Liza meant when she told the woman that she wasn't having suicidal thoughts but "other, trickier things."
She wasn't suicidal.
She was heartbroken.
She was tired.
She was scared.
But she wasn't suicidal.
There was a difference.
And a different diagnosis required a different treatment.
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The Expansion of the Universe
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