I’m not, generally speaking, an adherent of depression. But on National Depression Day, I felt compelled to attend services.
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Nonetheless, I tried to do my part. I dressed in black. In a foolproof scowl-inducing move I opened mail: not a single bill. I tore into an ominously officious envelope. It was the feds returning my promissory note–signed in girlish innocence 15 years ago–clearing me of all student debt. The phone rang, dangling the possibility of catastrophe: An untimely death? An assignment in Flossmoor? It was merely an invitation to dinner. UPS delivered shoes. No day that involves buying shoes can be all bad.
In the lobby a slick sign resting on an easel announced in glossy block letters: “This test could save your life. Free screening for depression at 1 and 5.” Inside the depression room old ladies in faux leopard hats, hospital staffers in baggy green scrubs, and moms toting tots were taking their places at classroom desks. A canister of finely honed number-two pencils and a stack of “self-inventory” forms stood ready to alert a team of mental health professionals to the emotional state of all comers. The depression-curious bent over their multiple-choice quizzes in rapt concentration. I checked off the boxes swiftly.
That’s when I finally got it. The test, the film, and much of the literature had all been billed as “public services” from Eli Lilly, manufacturer of Prozac. Dr. Yohanna wrapped up our five minutes by handing me a referral form, just in case I needed a Northwestern Memorial Hospital Stone Institute of Psychiatry professional to discuss things with. I guess National Depression Day is just one more Hallmark holiday, designed to move product. Depressing.
