DR. DORA ASKS ME how I’ve been. I say there’s no easy way to answer that. “Anxious?” “Yes.” “Depressed?” “Oh, yes.” She asks me to tell her how I felt this weekend, but when I begin to tell her why I got depressed, she stops me. “No, James. You have to listen carefully—I want to know how it felt. Not why you felt it.” I’m a little perturbed by this splitting of hairs. “I think it’s important that you know why, though,” I urge. “I will ask you the why later. First, let’s go through the how.” I sigh and look off to the right. There’s a crappy picture of a gray-toned sailboat in a bright silver frame. It’s got seagulls. I freaking hate seagulls. “It felt. Depressing.” “Do better than that.” “I don’t know. I didn’t leave my room.” “Good. What else? Did you do anything in your room?” “I slept. I stayed in bed. Didn’t eat. Didn’t shower.” “Did you check e-mail, Facebook, cell phone?” She’s poised to write down my answer.
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