I was reminded of the Carl Sandburg poem: “The fog comes / on little cat feet. / It sits looking / over harbor and city / on silent haunches / and then moves on.” My brain felt perpetually fogged, as if some creature had descended on slow, silent haunches, but would not move on. Andrew Solomon, the writer, once described depression as a “flaw in love.” But in medical terms, it was a problem with the regulation of neurotransmitters and their signals. A flaw in chemicals. “Which chemicals? What signals?” I asked Paul. I knew that serotonin, the neurotransmitter, had something to do with it.
