My friend Amy has it all. For one thing, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. She’s blond and fit and always looks like she just stepped out of the pages of a catalog. Even better, she’s an impossibly talented opera singer with a rare vocal gift and the work ethic to put it into practice. She lives in the stunningly scenic part of Colorado around Denver. Her circle of girlfriends has remained tight-knit since college, despite being spread out across the country (and sometimes the globe). She just got engaged to a sweet, smart man who mountain bikes up and down Colorado peaks and has an encyclopedic knowledge of music.
She is also the poster child for the fact that depression doesn’t care if you are pretty or smart or talented or how much money you make or if you’re single or if you live in the first world. Depression doesn’t care who you are. Depression doesn’t care about anything. It isn’t a thing at all that might operate by logic or feeling or even some base-level survival instinct programmed into its DNA like a virus or bacteria. It simply is what it is—a poorly understood disease that can strike anyone. But it does make you forget who you are. It makes you not care about anything.
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