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Depression can be funny, sometimes.


“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m usually not a crier.” But that’s a lie. It’s an obvious lie in this context, given that my new psychiatrist has my chart in front of him, the one that says I’ve been diagnosed with major depression disorder for over a year now. This is a bit like how when my therapist asks me how I’m doing, I also auto-respond with, “Fine, thanks, and how are you?” I wouldn’t be surprised if my chart also contained something about pathological politeness.

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