I fell into a funk around the time I graduated from college and started my office job. The symptoms weren’t severe at first. I didn’t feel depressed. It was more of a lack of energy than sadness. All the enthusiasm and spirit of my college years were gone. My senses were muted.
I figured my body was adjusting to waking up to a screeching alarm at 7 a.m. after years of rising naturally at 10 or 11 a.m. After several months passed and my symptoms hadn’t improved, I started to feel depressed. I hadn’t felt so drained since I had mono my junior year in high school or after I got that three foot bong for my 20th birthday.
I started to get desparate. Early one morning, before my coworkers arrived and I was all alone in the maze of cubicles, I put my phone’s head set on and dialed the four-digit extension of the office’s staff psychiatrist. (Apparently, enough of my colleagues felt the way I did for the office to have a full-time shrink.) Three rings and no answer. This is silly, I thought to myself. Just as I extended my index finger to the “end call” button on my Cisco phone, there was an answer. “This is Dr. Susnow,” the voice on the other end said.
I wanted to hang up but I knew that his caller ID exposed my identity.
“Um, uh,” I stuttered. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
“No,” he said forcefully. “You called for a reason. Come to my office at noon. We’ll talk then.”
The next thing I heard was a dial tone. I exhaled as I placed the head set on my desk. Sean from three cubes away shouted, “Sup,” and smacked me on the back of my head as he walked by, causing me to jump out of my chair. I stood and surveyed the grey and beige room to make sure no one had overheard my conversation. Luckily, it was just Sean and me.