When I was 15 years old, my father disappeared, and a pale imitation showed up in his place. In some ways, it was a pretty good copy. For a while, he could go to his job, he could go to the grocery store, he could drop off the dry cleaning. I’m sure the clerk at the gas station didn’t notice anything different.
But my mom and I knew. My father has endless charisma, and when he disappeared, everything changed. When that cheap photocopy entered the room, you could feel the temperature drop five degrees. He was a gray ghost in a Technicolor world, and when you looked in his eyes—its eyes—there was no joy, because he wasn’t there. He had disappeared without leaving.
I don’t remember when I first heard the phrase “clinical depression,” but I remember when the words hit home. It was the day after my 16th birthday, the day my father entered the acute wing of inpatient psychiatric care. That’s the one where they take your shoelaces and your belt. It was a very grayscale place, and it fit him perfectly.
