The office had a window. It was a small rectangle that was probably more of an afterthought than a purposeful design feature, but from where I sat it was a vibrant change from the egg-shell, non-color of the walls.

I’d been here for a while, but purposefully refused to look at my watch. This was a conversation that I had put off for way to long, and I didn’t want to seem impatient or ungrateful. So, when the woman behind the desk was asking questions or listening to my responses, I kept my focus on her. When we both went silent and the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard started again, my eyes drifted to the window.

The office overlooked a little courtyard, and at the edge of the window I could see the brick façade corner of the next building. There was a man walking on the little footpath, orange sweatpants and a green hoodie, his face covered by long braids; and at the corner of the window new sprigs of a budding tree limb swayed in the breeze. It wasn’t a sunny day, instead it held a cool serenity, like nature was taking a slow deep breath to prepare for the riotous activity of spring.

The clicking stopped and I felt her eyes turn back toward me. I pulled my eyes away from the cool serenity and back into the cold practicality of the office. The warm white lights did their best to make the bland walls and the featureless desk seem inviting, but there was little they could do. The only splash of color came from the earth-toned scarf and olive skin of the woman across from me.

She said something, but the first words didn’t register as I was refocusing my attention; although by the look in her solemn, brown eyes I knew it was important. The first thing I had heard was, “Are you okay with that?” Quickly thinking back, I focused on the first words she said, “I’m diagnosing you with major depression. Are you okay with that?”

Am I okay with that? Really!? I was ecstatic! Relief washed through me. I was so happy I could cry. Ironically, I couldn’t help but smile. That sentence lifted a burden I hadn’t realized I was carrying. All of the sudden so much stuff made sense.

The days when everything irritated me for no reason.

The days when getting dressed and walking out the door was a colossal achievement.

The days when I had so much stuff on my mind that I sat and did nothing, because I couldn’t figure out where to start.

The times when I got overloaded being in a group and had to get away from everybody to calm down and catch my breath.

The persistent near panic that any failure on my part could destroy my life.

The really dark days when only the thoughts of my wife and boys kept me breathing.

It was all a part of this one thing. One single enemy that I had to face, and after years of wondering and struggling, it had a name.

I left the office feeling lighter. I know that probably sounds strange, but as Kenny Roger’s song “The Greatest” beautifully explains, perspective matters.

I’m not a novice when it comes to Psychology, in fact I’ve studied aspects of it for a large portion of my life, but even I didn’t really understand what depression was like. Our culture has taught us to treat depression with wariness. The term depression (especially major depression) has become synonymous with suicidal. The popular version is that it’s some dark sucking void that slowly, inexorably draws the person in. They detach from everything, are always glum, slumped shouldered, lethargic, and apathetic to anyone or anything around them.

But that’s not reality.

See, for years I have chalked my behavior up to being moody, grumpy, introverted, and analytical, which admittedly are all true. However, as I explained to the woman across the desk, there isn’t some pervasive deep darkness; just under everything there is a general malaise. I talk, I interact, I smile, I laugh, I joke (a lot), I love, I care, and I have a good time; but I don’t really get excited or emotional about many things.

When she said that was actually a very normal description of depression, I was shocked.

Now, the suicidal aspects are real, and I won’t deny that. I have thought about it from time to time, and each time the idea has been quickly rejected. Because I didn’t concentrate on it, and it didn’t devour my thoughts for days on end, I didn’t think it qualified. But apparently that’s fairly normal also.

In the Deadpool movie, Colossus describes being a hero as 4 or 5 moments in a lifetime where you have a choice. The suicidal portion of depression is kind of the reverse of that. There are certain moments when you feel you have no choice, and the only thing you have control over is the state of your own life. Once you can move past the moment (however long that takes) it’s gone; you go on with life until the next moment. Each moment is different, and unpredictable, and how you deal with it is unknowable. To use the macabre punchline to an old matador joke, “Sometimes the bull wins.” You can’t keep the moments from happening, just try to be ready when they do.

I see things different now. I’m not planning to shout it from the rooftops or anything, but it’s no longer a silent struggle. It’s not something that’s wrong with me that has to be hidden. Those that know me and need to know will; they will be my ballast and my net.

It’s there in black and white, documented, and real. It’s not shameful and not something I’ll hide from. By it having a name, it losses some of it’s power, and gives some of the control back to me. When confronted, I can call it out for what it is. It is a part of me, part of who I am, and in many ways no different than the physical struggles I contend with every day. By treating it as such it isn’t a burden, just an adaptation.

I’m not broken, I’m not fragile, I don’t need to be handled with “kid gloves”.

I’m just regular, slightly abnormal, normal me.