My Secret Depression
Just six months after a life-saving and revitalizing liver transplant in May 2016, I fell headfirst into a deep hole “experts” call depression. One afternoon in the middle of a nap, I was rocked awake with great, heaving sobs. And not a single apparent clue why.
I called a friend, desperate to understand. And stop crying, of course. She asked, “Are you having a panic attack?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had one before.”
“Do you have any marijuana or Xanax?
“No.” Note to self: Call doctor, make appointment, get answers and help.
I saw my doctor the same week. We talked a little, she prescribed some Xanax, then she sent me to her inhouse psychotherapist. She and I talked quite a bit, and at the end she proclaimed, “You’re depressed.” I argued fiercely that I was not.
I’d never been depressed, I explained. I get sad for awhile, but never feeling this awful, hopeless way. She held firm, nicely, and set up another visit for the next week.
This therapist was good, insightful, kind, and smart. But still we argued over her diagnosis. In fact, I’d gone to different therapists at different points in my life, and never got ANY diagnosis at all from any of them. Certainly not depression. I told her all that.
