My Psychiatrist Told Me That 3/10 Might Be My Norm

Take a look at the cover photo. Got it? Good.

Do I look depressed? If I do, I'm not as good an actor as I thought.

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Well, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays because I am one of the severely depressed people that populate our world. Taking that further, I'm also one of those people with major depression that functions perfectly fine. I have relatively good grades, I enjoy watching sports, I have friends. For all intents and purposes, I'm normal.

With that being said, there's not a day that goes by that I don't feel down, whether it be after hanging out with friends and laughing all day or taking it easy and watching movies. I guess that's what happens when you lose the one thing you love more than anything in the world (basketball) and survive a deadly disease that takes people's lives every day and hate yourself for it.

Now, I know everyone feels down, but it's been nearly five years and I'm in a rut, which really sucks when no one knows that you're depressed. I don't go out of my way to deny it, but people look at you differently and with pity in their eyes when they become aware. And I don't need their pity, I have enough of that on my own.

Like many people, I see a psychiatrist every few months to look at my progress and change meds if need be. A couple of weeks ago, I went to an appointment with my mom and my sister. When we were called back to the room, I sat in one of the chairs closest to the desk, my sister took the other comfy chair and my mom took the office-like chair, while the psychiatrist took a seat at her desk.

Her first question was, "How are you doing?".

I hate this question because I never have a good answer. It's not as easy as it sounds, especially when you're constantly keeping your pain away from the surface, so I just shrugged.

Then she went on to ask, "How are the meds working out?"

The only difference I can pinpoint in my meds is when I'm not taking anything and I feel like I'm going over the edge.

Now, of course, we try to figure out our next treatment course.

New meds? Nope, tried all of them. Counseling? No way am I telling people how I feel. Journaling? I've tried it, but it loses its appeal after a few days.

Apparently, my suggestion of a lobotomy was outvoted, which left us twiddling our thumbs until my psychiatrist asked another few questions, "Are you making friends? Are you being social?"

"I have some friends, I guess," I told her, "I study and eat with them." What I really should've said was, "Not really" because that's what the depressed stereotype is portrayed.

"That's good," She smiled, "So you're not too depressed then." What is that supposed to mean?

I didn't say anything for a few minutes, so my mom questioned the next course of treatment and my psychiatrist asked me where I thought I was on the depression scale.

"3."

Then said a few words that surprised me, mind you, I've heard the words "you have cancer." She looked at me and said, "Some people's normal is a 3/10."

If you're familiar with the 10-point pain scale, flip it upside down, the more depressed you are, the lower the number. 3/10 is only two away from the most depressed you could possibly be and I'm not expected to get any higher on the scale.

Honestly, that kinda sucks, especially coming from a medical professional who supposedly "fixes" your issues. Granted, I have a lot of issues.