It’s a cliche, but it’s true: when I was really ill from depression last summer, it became easy to see who really cared about me and who had only stuck around me for other reasons.
I had been hooking up with two different guys that summer—”Brandon” and “Mark.” Brandon and I had developed what I’d thought was a deep friendship and mutual respect for each other’s careers; Mark and I had passion and affection. Both of them knew how I’d been struggling with sadness for the past eight months or so.
But both guys flat-out disappeared after I told them I’d been diagnosed by a doctor and prescribed medication. Did naming it make it real? Did calling it what it was make it scary? It hurt to sit with the reality that Mark and I had been in his bed together on Saturday night, but when I texted Mark on Monday morning to say I’d gotten a scrip for Lexapro, he never replied.