I am depressed. That’s not something I realized until W pointed it out to me. You’re just saying that because you’re depressed.
I would not describe this experience as one of those the 14.8 million American adults will have this year. Their experiences will be classified as major depressive episodes. I am not violently overwhelmed as I have been in response to things in the past: This is not my first major breakup–when a teenage M. didn’t eat for a week, barely slept, and was convinced her young life was over, that she was doomed to be alone from there on out, and would never find happiness or joy again. This is a quiet that follows me around the house. It makes things seem a little less important, my efforts a little more futile, outlooks a little bleaker. It follows me around and tugs on my hands and feet, making everything I do a little slower.
Things are hopeless.
Maybe part of me things I will never see normally again–not that I ever had in the first place. I worry that the surgery was useless. I fear what that will be like. I am easily overwhelmed by the gnawing boredom accompanied by a complete inability to do anything by myself.
Of all the possible side effects people listed, all the things that could go wrong, no one said depression was one of them.