When I go to see my doctor, I tell her I’m fine.
She doesn’t seem to notice that California has been hit by it’s own hurricane just as big as Harvey. Water up to our chests and me looking around the room wondering where the panic lies. Everything’s great, I say. She’s treading water easily, but my leg is caught between the observation table and the wall. I hope she doesn’t notice. I steer the conversation towards a YouTube video on depression I watched the night before. It said that “antidepressants really can be a miracle drug when you have your life together and you still can’t get out of that funk.” I have my life together, I say. I was just in that funk.
Water now chin level and I distract her by talking about a book I had started reading in the Waiting Room. I want her to like me, and when has depression ever been likable?
I should have told her that I don’t know how I am doing. It would have been a respectable answer.
I don’t know how I’m doing. I checked the distance between my second story apartment window and the ground about one week ago. I don’t know how I’m doing. I spent the five days my roommate was out of town lying in bed which worried my father when he called to check in. I don’t know how I’m doing. I quit my job out of nowhere because I couldn’t take the feeling it gave me of someone throwing a plastic bag over my face until I suffocated. I don’t know how I’m doing, and the water is filling my mouth.
She smiles and tells me we will meet again in six months for a quick check-in. She is glad I am fine.