Last night before falling asleep, I talked about my depression like it was a third person in bed with us. And when I thought about it for a while, I realized that's exactly what it is. At this point, it seems to function as its own living, breathing entity.

I am gaining surface happy, but it's still there. I spent two days bonding with co-workers, getting drunk on margeritas (on the way back to the hotel after dinner, the head supervisor bought a 6-pack of Coors Light at a Racetrack, and she and a co-worker cracked them open in the backseat), watching Girlfriends and swapping storylines with my direct supervisor, and talking about race relations with a black co-worker. I felt happy, comfortable, and excited to be there. And yet, the depression still exists.

Today, I chatted with the volunteer coordinator over lunch, and we planned to play tennis together one day--after I take a few more lessons, and brainstormed cool outreach activities our agency could sponsor. I came back more sated with conversation than food, and excited about all the possibilities our talk had opened up. And still, I am trailed by a dark, lurking shadow.

I've never let it get to the point where it was living on its own before. I am the poster child for therapy. I am a counselor. (Er, sort of.) I generally make an appointment as soon as I realize it's more than a bad day or two. But then again, I used to have good insurance. Now I've got to save up for the visits. But it feels like a big relief to finally have scheduled an appointment, never mind that it's a month away.