The best part of this book is the title.

What a banger of a title. Holding out on suicidal ideation because of a small joy in life and holding that dialectic. I wanted to read this based on the title alone.

Maybe I shouldn't do that.

This is less a book and more a transcript of a few therapy sessions that frankly aren't very productive, well structured, or particularly insightful. A lot of the conversation is "I feel this" "have you considered it's ok to feel this?" Or "have you considered feeling this instead?" Or "maybe you don't actually feel that?" and none of these generic prompts really lead us down anything profound. The author and therapist both acknowledge that at the end - there's no conclusion, there's just this. It's unproductive therapy dressed up as performance art.

I wouldn't recommend this to anyone and would instead plug Stephanie Foo's What My Bones Know as a self-help-memoir written by an East Asian woman that has therapy transcripts and says something new.

More thoughts here: https://youtu.be/vni9kSfxaf0