Here are some of the questions your doctor will ask you as you’re beginning treatment for depression:

• Are you sad? (Yes.)
• Are you suicidal? (No.)
• What do you do all day? (Watch Dawson’s Creek.)
• Are you sleeping more or less than usual? (More.)
• What do you see yourself doing in 5 years? (?????)

This time last week, I was up late into the night wondering if I should call my doctor. I’m always up pretty late anyway, in part thanks to my love of talk shows and in part because I sleep all day. I am exhausted all the time but regularly lie awake at night and occasionally it crosses my mind that I should really be seeing someone about all of this.

I’ve dismissed my depression in a hundred different ways over the past few years. Surely the reason I was so tired was due to juggling three part time jobs? Maybe the stress of an internship and school and work? Once I straightened all that out and was down to one job, full time, I told myself that being underqualified was what made me feel like I was constantly drifting further and further from shore.

Maybe I don’t exercise enough? Joined a gym two years ago. Maybe my vegetarianism lends me to anemia? Tested, treated. Maybe I just have a sadder, quieter disposition than most? Maybe. You name it, I’ve tried to apply it to myself while avoiding an uglier truth.

My family is prone to depression, but they are also prone to Stiff Upper Lippishness and self medicating. The alcoholics and the drug abusers and the  people who can’t get up in the morning but will tell you everything’s alright - we’ve got it all and we’ve got it in spades.

I’ve thought about it dozens of times, but last Tuesday I finally called and made an appointment with my clinic. Between making the appointment and going to it, I nearly called to cancel at least three times a day. I sat in the waiting room and had visions of bolting; of taking two steps and running into my doctor before shoving him aside and yelling “just kidding, I’m fine!” I’m not. I didn’t. I stayed. It seemed impossible.

He asked me his questions and I was embarrassed, but I stayed because I’m not fine. He wrote me a prescription for antidepressants and I took it because I’m not fine. I’m seeing a psychiatrist in two weeks because I am not fine. (Forgive me if this sounds dramatic, but reminding myself of its truth seems to be the only way to drill it into my head after all this time.) I went back for blood testing today to rule out any other disorders and get my first physical reminder that I have a problem.

Everything’s been okay so far. The hardest part has been not telling anyone, making and going to appointments alone, staying up at night wondering if this is something that people recover from. I’ve seen depression; I’ve seen people fight it and give up on it and magnify it, but I’ve never known anyone to leave it behind them. It’s in my cards, though, and I’m dealing with it whether I want to or not… so here we are, putting a tag on it, giving it a name and treating it. Here goes.