A vigail didn’t have a debilitating drug or alcohol problem. She didn’t have schizophrenia OCD bipolar disorder or any other pathological psychiatric condition either. The banks weren’t about to foreclose on her mortgage and neither she nor her husband were seriously ill. In fact you’d figure she was basically sane as could be and one of the last people in the community who’d be coming into my office for a psychiatric evaluation.
Nevertheless here was Avigail sitting in the comfortable chair by the window and telling me how depressed she was. She had a daughter who was “a bit too modern” for her liking a married son who lived too far away and one of her younger children took Ritalin for ADHD. Her job as a math teacher at Bais Yaakov wasn’t as exciting as she’d thought it would be when she switched over from the public school system and her husband’s 401(k) had lost 6 percent last year instead of maintaining its historical steady growth.
“It’s like a cloud of darkness ” she said. Clearly there was real pain here. “Plain and simple I’m depressed ” she said with candor. “I think I need medication. I have a friend who takes Prozac or Paxil or Zoloft or one of those things. Maybe I should try it too.”
I admired her for taking responsibility for her mental health — most people facing those feelings of gloom tend to just trudge through the fog without seeking assistance that could be quite beneficial.
