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projective personality test where the subject draws houses, trees and people providing a measure of self-perception. My drawing of the tree disturbed her the most. She said that the fact that my tree had no leaves and no outward branches was indicative of someone who lives inside herself. My mother thought that, although not a typical tree for a twelve year old, it was a nice picture. The psychologist didn’t agree and so I began seeing her twice a week. After two sessions of doing nothing but stare at each other, we decided that I would switch to another therapist.
    Iris was more personable. She was matronly and actually engaged me in conversations. She referred me to a psychiatrist who prescribed anti-depressants. It took a while to find the right medication at the right dosage. In the early ‘80’s, anti-depressants were mostly tri-cyclic and carried more side effects than their modern day counterparts. The first one I tried plunged me into a nearly catatonic depression. After a few adjustments though, they did seem to help.
    A couple of months into therapy, Iris deemed it necessary to have a family session with both herself and the psychiatrist present. I looked forward to having my parents and brother there with me so we could finally talk about things that we never talked about as a family. We rarely spoke about my therapy or the fact that I was on medication other than when my parents would ask how things were going. “Fine,” I would tell them, and that was that. Being the identi fied patient, I felt separate - apart from the rest of them. It seemed like everything was fine in our family except for me because I was depressed. So, one bright sunny afternoon my family and I met with my therapist and psychiatrist.
    No one said a thing. There were a couple of questions asked but the overall tone of the session was, “We’re fine, we don’t know why we’re here, Kim’s depressed and we don’t know what to do.”
    Afterward, in the car on the way home, they laughed and joked about being there. “What a waste of time,” they said. “No need for that again.” I felt ashamed and humiliated for the hope I’d had of the session as a metamorphosis for our family. I’d envisioned us emerging from the cocoon of Iris’s office united in a journey toward truth and healing. When they laughed and made fun, I knew I was definitely in this alone, whatever this was.
    This, it turned out, was major depression. Over the years, my diagnosis has evolved, along with the DSM, now known as the DSM-IV: Clinical depression, major depression, chemical depression and finally, bi-polar disorder type II. That’s my diagnosis, although my tendencies run to the depressive side of the pole.
    Mental illness. I’m forty-four now and it’s still a delicate subject for me. As an adolescent, it was horrifying. I’m not sure which would have been worse: the other kids finding out about my “condition,” or starting my period at school in a pair of white jeans with no hygiene products.
     
    Imagine you’re in an enormous vat of peanut butter. You’re immersed, though somehow, still able to breathe. Try to walk. Try to move your head or blink. Try moving your arms and hands. You can do it, but it will take forever and everything you try to do is exhausting. The peanut butter fills your mouth and ears. Talking is a chore and aural sensory, dim.
    Oh dear. You just dropped your car keys, and you’re late for class/meeting/work/whatever. All that peanut butter is heavy, pressing against you from all sides. By the time you pick up those keys, it will be too late even to try to keep your commitments. So tired. So fatigued and frustrated.
    Fuck the keys. Leave them on the floor. Who cares now? Lie down. Even that requires herculean effort and when you’re finally lying there, it’s too much effort to move so you lay there like a lump. With the pressure of the peanut butter against your body, it feels like it’s all you can do to