I wake up every morning and I wish I were dead, and so does Jim.

Host: The hotel room was drowning in quiet — the kind of quiet that doesn’t comfort, only deepens what it surrounds. The rain outside slid down the window in crooked lines, blurring the neon lights of a restless city. Somewhere down the hall, a TV murmured half a gospel sermon through static.

Jack sat at the edge of the bed, still dressed from the night before, his hands clasped like someone holding on to a prayer that never answered. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette framed in the dull glow of morning. The curtains moved slightly from the draft — small, almost invisible gestures of life.

For a long while, neither spoke. Only the rain did.

Jeeny: “Tammy Faye Bakker once said, ‘I wake up every morning and I wish I were dead, and so does Jim.’”

Jack: (flatly) “Yeah. I remember that interview. Everyone laughed. They thought she was being dramatic.”

Jeeny: “She wasn’t. She was just being honest.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, steady and indifferent, like a reminder that time doesn’t pause for the broken. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and desperation.

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t change anything, Jeeny. The world doesn’t care if you’re sad — not if you’re on camera.”

Jeeny: “That’s what made her words hurt more. She wasn’t pretending anymore. She wasn’t the woman with mascara running down her face on TV. She was just... empty.”

Jack: “We all get empty eventually.”

Host: Jeeny turned from the window, her eyes red — not from tears, but from sleeplessness.

Jeeny: “Do you ever feel that, Jack? The kind of emptiness that eats through you before the day even starts?”

Jack: (dryly) “You mean the kind where you wake up and realize you’re still you?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “Every morning.”

Host: The rain softened, though the sky stayed grey, the kind of grey that felt permanent. Jeeny walked toward him, her bare feet making no sound on the thin carpet.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? That someone like Tammy — who built her whole life on faith, on hope — could wake up and want to die.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t make you invincible. Sometimes it just gives you new words to describe your despair.”

Jeeny: “But she wasn’t faithless. She was tired. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Tired of what?”

Jeeny: “Of pretending joy is proof of salvation.”

Host: A pause — long, deliberate. Jack’s shoulders sank slightly, his eyes distant. He looked like a man replaying a thousand mornings he never wanted to wake up from.

Jack: “You think that’s what she meant? That she wasn’t suicidal — just done pretending?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe she meant she was done performing happiness for people who’d never understand pain.”

Jack: “You talk like you know how that feels.”

Jeeny: “I do.”

Host: The words fell like stones. No echo. No justification. Just truth.

Jack: “Then why keep getting up?”

Jeeny: “Because somewhere between wanting to die and being too scared to, you start to remember — someone has to live through the story.”

Jack: “That’s not optimism, Jeeny. That’s resignation.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s endurance.”

Host: The rain started again, heavier this time, as if the sky refused to keep its secrets. Jack stood, pacing slowly, his shadow stretching across the room like a weary ghost.

Jack: “You ever notice how people treat depression like a moral failure? Like if you were stronger, you’d just shake it off?”

Jeeny: “Because they’re afraid. If sadness can touch someone like Tammy Faye — someone with faith, money, purpose — then it means it can touch anyone. It means it’s real.”

Jack: “So they laugh. Because it’s easier than looking in the mirror.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lamp light flickered once, then steadied. Jeeny sat down beside him on the bed. The space between them was thin as breath, thick as memory.

Jeeny: “I think that’s why she said it out loud. She wanted people to know that even in the brightest spotlight, you can still feel like a shadow.”

Jack: “You think it helped?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not her. But maybe someone else.”

Jack: “That’s the cruel part of confession — sometimes the truth saves everyone except the one who said it.”

Host: His voice cracked — just slightly. It wasn’t weakness; it was the sound of armor bending.

Jeeny: “You know what’s worse than wanting to die?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Wanting to live but not knowing how.”

Host: Silence followed — deep, aching, sacred. The kind of silence that doesn’t need words because both people are standing on the same edge.

Jack: “You ever feel like happiness is a kind of lie we tell to make others comfortable?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But then I think — maybe happiness isn’t the lie. Maybe it’s the quiet moments like this — the honest ones — that are too true for most people to bear.”

Jack: “You think honesty can heal?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. It has to. Even the truth wants to rest.”

Host: Jack stared at the rain, his reflection split by water trails. His voice softened, almost lost in the rhythm of the storm.

Jack: “When I was nineteen, I wanted to die too. Not dramatically. Just quietly. Like slipping out the back door of the world. No noise, no note. Just gone.”

Jeeny: (gently) “What stopped you?”

Jack: “My mother’s voice. She was humming in the kitchen. It wasn’t even a song — just a sound. I realized if I left, that sound would stop too. So I stayed.”

Jeeny: “That’s music, Jack. Your life became her song.”

Jack: “Then I guess I’m still humming out of habit.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, eyes glistening.

Jeeny: “Habit’s a start. Sometimes survival begins as a habit.”

Jack: “And what does it become?”

Jeeny: “A choice.”

Host: Outside, the storm began to fade. The first thin ray of morning light slipped through the clouds, falling across the bed — pale, hesitant, alive.

Jeeny reached over and touched Jack’s hand — not out of pity, but recognition.

Jeeny: “You see, Tammy Faye wasn’t wrong for saying it. She was human for saying it. And maybe that’s what she was trying to teach us — that even despair can be shared. That even at the edge, you’re not alone.”

Jack: “Maybe the trick isn’t trying to be happy. Maybe it’s learning to stay.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Stay — even when it hurts. Especially then.”

Host: The camera lingered — the faint light creeping across their faces, two souls stitched together by confession and quiet empathy.

The rain had stopped. The city outside stirred awake, its hum returning — fragile but real.

Jack: “You think she ever stopped wishing for death?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe she learned how to keep living in spite of it. Maybe that’s all any of us ever do.”

Host: Jack looked down at their joined hands, at the trembling of the smallest, simplest act of connection.

The camera pulled back slowly, through the window, past the rain-streaked glass, into the gray light of dawn.

And there — in a single hotel room, two people breathing through the same ache —
was the only kind of resurrection life ever really offers:
not joy, not miracle, just the courage to stay alive another morning.