The office is bland — standard corporate fare. An L-shaped desk, a monitor, two chairs, and a cheap-fabric-covered cubby are punctuated by a broad-leafed, slightly emaciated fern in a gray pot in the corner. Behind her desk, furiously typing away at all her notes, the doctor paused and looked at me. “Well, before we can determine what else is going on, we need to address your depression.” The blood drained out of my face. Depression? Of all the outcomes I expected from this appointment, a diagnosis of “depression” wasn’t even on the list. It’s just not how I thought of myself. Maybe at other times of my life, but not now.
I couldn’t tell you how I got back to my car after that, or how I drove home. Depression. Depression. Depression. The word echoed in my head. As someone who generally believes in facing all the hard things face-on, I started looking at the past few months, evaluating myself against the possibility of this new word. Well, I was having trouble getting up in the morning, but that had been true for over a year now. And the couch and I were now intimate friends. Taking care of the house was really more than I could face on an average day — but that was no surprise; we live in a big house. And I was learning how to be a homemaker for the first time, that was stressful. Cooking didn’t come naturally to me, and my daughter and I were both adjusting to having me available full-time. But I wasn’t suicidal. And I still laughed. I was still able to find humor…
