"Seeing the Light"

"So, Don," Bradford greets me in that always-calm tone of voice. "What's been going on with you?"

"Nothing," I shrug for lack of a better way to put it.

He raises an eyebrow. "You wanted to meet with me at eight-thirty at night because nothing has been going on?"

"What I mean," I start and suddenly find that my mouth is very dry. Why should this be so hard to say? I mean this guy already knows me inside and out, or at least he sure as hell manages to give me that impression. "What I mean is… I've been feeling very… depressed lately and there's nothing that should have caused it."

"No rough cases at work?"

"They're all rough – you know that. But none more so than usual."

"A larger than normal caseload?"

I shake my head. "If anything the cases have been fewer and farther between." I smile dryly. "Like the city finally realized we could use a break."

Bradford just nods and I'm left to wonder what conclusion he just made in that cryptic head of his. I guess I'll find out soon enough.

"No problems with Charlie? Your father?"

"No, not in the least. I've… I guess I've sort of been avoiding them. I've been keeping to myself a lot lately."

He makes a note on the pad on his desk. "So you haven't had your normal support network?"

Support network? Since when are Dad and Charlie considered my 'support network'?

"They're the ones you go to when you need to unwind, no?"

Damn mind reader. "Sometimes, I guess. Dad's food usually does do the body and soul good."

"And that's the only reason you go?"

What the hell? I came here because I was depressed, not because I wanted to hash out family dynamics. "Look, I really don't see what they have to do with the way I've been feeling…"

"One of the major signs of depression is avoidance of loved ones and friends." He pauses and I know what's coming even before the words get past his lips. "How's Liz?"

I narrow my eyes. "We've cooled our heels a bit."

"You're idea or hers?"

"Sort of mutual." His gaze bores into me and I find myself confessing. "Okay, maybe more me."

"So you have isolated yourself?"

Isolated? He makes it sound like I've gone home to my apartment and shut myself off from the world… Well, I guess… "I've been getting a lot of 'me' time." I'll be damned if he doesn't chuckle.

"Me time? You've got a hell of a way with euphemisms, Don." He taps his pen on his desk and studies me with an unnerving stare. "Your sleeping habits have changed?"

"Does not sleeping count?"

He nods and gives me a stern look. "As does sarcasm."

I have the presence of mind to look contrite.

"Lack of interest in activities you use to find pleasurable?"

I shake my head bitterly. "That would imply I had any hobbies to enjoy. I work, Doc, you know that."

"And you used to dine with your family and spend time with them."

I mull this over in my head. I have been feeling uncomfortable at Charlie's house. Maybe he's on to something. "Yeah, I don't enjoy that so much anymore."

Bradford makes one more notation on his pad before flipping it shut and fishing into his desk drawer. He pulls out a survey and slides it across the desk, clicking a pen open and setting it on top of the piece of paper. "All of these questions are referring to the past few days. Let me know when you've finished answering them."

I nervously pick up the pen and start reading through the questions. There are quite a few, all with answers that appear to score anywhere from a zero to a three. As I read each question, I feel more and more confident that I am about to find out I have some sort of serious problem. After five nerve-wracking minutes, I push the completed survey across the desk with more force than necessary. Yeah, like I can just push my problems away with the questionnaire.

Bradford reads silently, occasionally looking up for clarification. "You've been feeling more irritable lately?"

"Yeah."

"And how do you cope with that?"

"I sulk in my apartment." How's that for a euphemism, Doc?

"You drink? More than usual?"

"Maybe two or three beers after work instead of one or two."

"So that would be a 'yes'?"

I bite back a frustrated sigh. "Yes."

"You've been experiencing feelings of guilt or worthlessness," he reads aloud. "Revolving around what? Work? Family? Personal goals?"

"I'm not wealthy and I haven't been able to find a woman to settle down and have kids with," I point out.

"And those things disappoint you?"

"Aren't those the American dream?"

He nods. "For some. Not everyone, though." He gives me a hard look. "Tell me, do you think your father is disappointed that you haven't achieved those things?"

I nod. "Whether or not he wants to vocalize it, I'm sure he feels disappointment on some level."

"Is that why you've been avoiding him?" I'm caught off guard by the question and Bradford pushes further. "Charlie's wealthy – given your father a free home. And he's got a blooming relationship with another professor. Maybe you've been avoiding Charlie, too?"

How in the hell does he know so much about my brother? I think back to the joint session we had and try to recall if we actually discussed all of those things in this office. I'm so caught up in trying to remember that I almost miss Bradford's next question.

"Well, Don? Do you think that's the reason you've stopped going over to your brother's house?"

I shake my head vehemently. "No, there's got to be another reason." Good Lord, was that desperate voice really mine?

He looks back down at the survey, writing a number on the top corner and circling it. "Maybe there is."

I lean forward, silently imploring him to continue.

"You just took the Beck Depression Inventory," he informs me. "And you've scored a thirty-two."

I pause but he doesn't continue. It takes every ounce of strength in my being, but I manage to keep my tone light as I remark, "Did I forget to tell you that numbers are my brother's thing?"

He smiles at me and nods. "There's that old Don I know and respect. Good to have you back, if only for a minute." He clears his throat and taps the paper. "A thirty-two puts you on the low end of severe depression."

I have no idea how that statement makes me feel. Good? Because now I know it's not just me being mopey? Bad? Because now I know there's something wrong with me? I nervously run a hand through my hair and let out a shaky sigh. "So, what now?"

"We treat this thing. Attack it with everything at our disposal, as long as you're willing."

"I want to get better." I realize that's the most conviction I've had in my voice in the past few… months.

Bradford nods. "Good. It's a two-pronged approach. First we get you on some medication so you can rise above the darkness you see around you. Then we have some extra sessions to figure out what's causing this depression."

I nervously chew on my thumbnail. "I don't want to be on happy pills."

"They're not happy pills," he explains with the patience of a saint. "They're SSRIs – selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors." I can only sit and stare at him which he assumes – correctly, I might add – means I'm lost. "Serotonin is the chemical your brain secretes so that you feel good. The body naturally cycles between happy and down moments by controlling the presence of this chemical in your neurons. There are receptors in your brain that reuptake the serotonin as part of the body's natural cycle. So when a person is suffering from depression, we can ease the symptoms by calming these reuptake receptors so you can start to feel good while we look for the root cause." He pauses and I nod my understanding. "That also means you don't stay on them forever, usually six months or a year at the most – just long enough to make sure your symptoms don't come back."

"I can still work? These pills won't make me muddy-brained or anything like that?"

"Not at all," Bradford assures me. "There are possible side effects but nothing that will interfere with day-to-day life."

I lick my lips nervously and rub my hand over my denim-clad thigh. "And this stays confidential?"

"You feel the need to hurt yourself or others?"

"Of course not."

"Then this is one hundred percent confidential."

I rub my neck and find it hard not to smile. Could it be this really is the answer? I look Bradford in the eye and nod. "Let's do this."