Scene:
36th and Sansom. Penn's Counseling and Psychiatric Services, right next to Ann Taylor. Entrance almost impossible to find. I go in; she's coming out. We recognize each other, then quickly look away. She's my Bible Study leader.

Scene:
The CAPS waiting room. Eleven of us filling out mental health surveys, reading the same old magazines that were here last week. Psychologists come around the corner, call out a name in greeting. We all jerk our heads up, then guiltily down, as the one who was called scrambles to his feet. We are all desperate to be anonymous.

Scene:
12th and Walnut. My psychiatrist's office. Right in the middle of the gayborhood, something that always slightly amuses me. On my way I see a guy wearing a frat-style shirt: ΦΑΓ . I grin. No one cares and I like that.

I always schedule my appointments for 4:30. It's his last appointment slot of the day and it means I never have to see anyone except for him and the receptionist. Sometimes the receptionist isn't even there.

Scene:
I have problems. She has problems. They overlap, so we talk about them, quietly, for five minutes, sitting on the floor and leaning against the couch. I have class, then, and she has work. We never talk about it again.

Scene:
He asks me now and then: "So, uh, how's that going?" "Good," I say, "good." He says: "Good."

Society has no vocabulary for these kinds of conversations.

***

No one talks about these things. That's why there's no vocabulary for it.

I want to talk. I want to talk about my anxiety. I want to talk about my depression. I want to talk about PMDD. I want to talk about panic. I want to talk about fear. I want to talk about not actually being different. More than talking, I want to listen.

Stop the stigma.

Tags: Anxiety Depression

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