“You have prescription?” I nodded. “Yeah. Um. At home. It’s written on the bottle.” “What is this for?” “Depression.” “That’s all it’s for? What are you depressed about?” My ears burned. I glanced up at the four lights and hoped I wasn’t going to be chained to the ceiling and stripped naked. I hated that question: What are you depressed about? Because the answer was nothing. I had nothing to be depressed about. Nothing really bad had ever happened to me. I felt so inadequate. Dad told me I couldn’t help my brain chemistry any more than I could help having brown eyes. Dr. Howell always told me
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