“I think I’m depressed,” I tell my husband.
“No kidding,” he says, sautéing onions.
I am sitting on the linoleum, my back against the sunshine-yellow kitchen wall. When we bought the house two years ago, in 2012, I picked bright paint colors: teal, lavender, yellow. I wanted our home to feel cheerful.
“Do you want to sit on the couch under a blanket with a cup of tea and watch Law & Order?” my husband asks.
“That sounds terrible.”
“Do you want to call a friend?”
I imagine ringing up an old roommate for a chat: What am I up to? Well, I’m draped in a mantle of lead, the world has faded to sepia, and my internal soundtrack is a scratched record playing at half speed. Plus? I’m intermittently assailed by graphic suicidal thoughts.
