A Secret Gypsy

Prologue

Ever since I was a kid, I have suffered from severe depression. Not the kind that became popular to have or the kind people started to use as an adjective. The kind where a psychiatrist clinically diagnoses you with it; the kind that you're forced to go on medications to "fix" you; the kind that if you think about it for too long makes you even more depressed.

One of the things I learned in therapy that helped me was writing down at least three good things in my day; three things that made me happy. I learned that the negativity in this world can be so overwhelming and powerful it often hides the good that happens in the day, too. The cool thing I learned over time is there will always be three good things in my day. For years I filled up notebook after notebook with pages full of dates and three good things beneath it. Some days I had more than three and those are the days I try to remember vividly, for something to think of on my worse days.

I'm twenty years old now and had been doing well for a year or so. I stopped my lists, thinking I was "healed" from my clinical depression, and didn't think I needed them anymore. I stopped going to my psychiatrist because I felt I was over that time in my life. What I failed to remember, and what others so often forget or don't realize, is depression is a disease. And like with any disease, there are times you will go through a good phase and times when you will have a flare up and life is hard again.

So here I am today: twenty years old, standing outside my psychiatrist's office, terrified to open the door. Once I open that door, there is no going back. I know I need the help, but I hate to admit that. I hate to admit to failing—even though my psychiatrist would say having a "flare up" isn't failing.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and walked to the front desk. A friendly face greeted me from behind the desk and told me to sign in. I did, gave my insurance information, and sat down. I tapped my feet, fiddled with my hands, and waited.

Finally, the door opened and a petite woman called out, "Marley? Marley Lider?"

"That's me," I softly said before following her down the long corridor.

"We haven't seen you in a while, how have you been doing?" she asked, making small talk.

"I'd say good but I wouldn't be back here if I was good so..." I trailed off. She cleared her voice and I knew that, once again, I had failed in responding how I was expected to respond. I have little social skills and graces and always make others uncomfortable with my honesty. I should have just said "good, you?" Everyone likes the answer "good."

We stopped outside Dr. Needenheim's office where the nurse knocked before opening the door and gesturing for me to go in. I remembered to smile at her as a sign of thank you—which I never quite understood why humans feel inclined to smile at others when they are not genuinely happy—and walked in.

The walls were the same puke colored yellow, the chairs the same hideous pattern that reminded me of my grandparents; the only thing that had changed was Dr. Needenheim: he had gray hairs and more wrinkles than the last time I saw him.

He looked up and smiled at me as he took his glasses off and gestured for me to take a seat. I did so and fixated my eyes on his nameplate on his desk.

"Hey Marley."

"Hi, Dr. Needenheim," I said, fidgeting in my chair.

"How have you been prior to scheduling this appointment? You disappeared for over a year, I had high hopes you were doing well," he responded, his voice not holding any judgement or frustration over my disappearing act.

"I was doing...good. And then I..well, then I wasn't. So here I am."

"Did anything specific happen this time around?"

"No."

"You know this can happen. It's happened before, it will happen again; the good thing is you acknowledging that and getting back into practice when the disease kicks up again. Have you still been writing down three good things, three things that make you happy, every day?" he let out in an understanding voice. This is why I liked Dr. Needenheim, he was the only doctor I have ever had who gets it.

"Not of late. The source of my happiness has sort of shifted from objects and situations in my day to some..thing else," I hesitantly replied.

"Something else? Or someone?" he inquired.

"More like multiple someone's," I mumbled.

"A new friend group?" he asked spiritedly. In all my years with Dr. Needenheim, he has never known me to have many or any friends. He is always hopeful that will change one day. 

"Not, no, not exactly."

"Then who?"

"It's a band. Don't laugh at me, promise?" I lifted my eyes to meet his for the first time. He gave a reassuring nod before I finished. "One Direction."

"I've heard of them! They're the UK boy band that's been a huge success! Don't look at me like that, I have grand-kids who fill me in on these things," he said while smiling. I smiled back, picturing him dancing to "Act My Age."

"Have you thought about writing them, or maybe even one specific member, about your day? You know, a letter of sorts. Instead of doing lists how you used to, write a letter to the source of your happiness about your day. Write them the ups, the downs, the significant moments, the mundane events—just write."

"They would never even get it, or even if they did, they'd never reply," I said, shrugging the idea off.

"That isn't why you wrote down the three good things a day thing though. You did not write that for anyone else to see, did not write it for anyone else's benefit—you wrote it for you. Writing a letter to your source of happiness, even if they never get it or open it, even if you never send the letter, is not for anyone else's benefit except your own. So the question is: why not?" he encouraged, his eyes sparkling with a sort of genius behind them.

Our session continued until the hour was up. I genuinely felt better and lighter after my time with Dr. Needenheim, but as I was leaving, only one thought plagued my mind:

Why not?