A couple months ago, I reunited with a high school friend.  We had a great time catching up at our reunion, but since we live in different states, our continued communication is pretty much electronic- some emails, fairly regular Facebook chats, and texts to alleviate the tedium of most workdays.  In a text over the weekend, sent after he closed up his beach house for the year, he said he was feeling depressed and lonely.  He was vague about the reasons (“…end of summer, job, just stuff…”) So, when I didn’t get any texts from him on Monday, including a lack of response to a text I had sent, I freaked out a little.   Or maybe more than a little.  I called  him on his cell phone, just to check on him, worried because he’d had a rough time over the weekend.  He assured me he is fine, and that he’d had a good day, and that it was really sweet of me to call and check on him, although he sounded really confused as to my concern.

To the best of my knowledge, this guy has never been diagnosed with any mood disorder, yet the word “depressed” sent me into immediate protective mode.  I’ve come to define myself in terms of whether I have done enough to help anyone else work through their own issues.  And I’ve taken what is a commonly used, seemingly innocuous term in our vernacular and turned it into my crusade.

I guess this may be a sign that I need to get back into therapy,  before someone peripherally related to me has a bump in their own mental health or happiness that I flog myself for not preventing.