I’ve been trying to write something like this for a couple of years, but it has been difficult for me to find the right words. I am not sure if I have, even now, but I think it is important that I try.
When I was diagnosed with depression, it was late summer in California, and I was wearing an itchy skirt, sweating slightly in an air-conditioned doctor’s office. The psychiatrist asked me a bunch of questions, wrote a couple things down, and then called in a prescription to the pharmacy. “You’re depressed,” she told me. And despite everything, despite expecting to hear her say it and knowing that it was the truth, it still confused me to hear it out loud. “I’m what,” I said.
For weeks after, I could not shake the sense of alienation or the feeling that something was terribly wrong with me. When I was…
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