“Well, your test results look good.” She smiled — one of those thin, polite smiles. The thought flashed through my head: Psychiatrists should not be permitted to be thin and beautiful.

“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear,” she added hastily. My eyes had filled with tears faster than I’d realized, and now the tears were running down my cheeks. Bad day to not wear waterproof mascara. The tissue she handed me came away from my face black.

“What are you thinking right now?” she asked. Her favorite question to ask when I’m falling apart. Like I really want to express what I’m thinking. I was hoping I was sick. I was fantasizing about cancer. How can I feel so ill all the time if I’m perfectly healthy? I am not crazy!!

“My symptoms…” I choked out. “Are they just related to the depression?” Because I’ve been treating that for 10 years. A million different drugs. Nothing’s worked.

“Maybe.” Her face was even prettier when it was pitying. “We’ll keep trying.”