“Mama, I’m Depressed”

F

ishl, you gotta get out of bed—it’s nine o’clock.”

Serke (my Sally), I don’t feel like it, I’m depressed.”

“I’m calling your mother; she’ll stop your talking nonsense.”

“Okay.”

Fishele, whadya mean, you’re depressed? Serke said, you said, you’re very depressed.”

“Mama, I don’t feel like getting out of bed this morning.”

“Whadya mean you don’t feel like getting out of bed this morning?”

“Mama, I just don’t have the urge to get up and get out of bed.”

“Whadya mean you just don’t have the urge to get up and get out of bed?”

“Mama, it’s just that I don’t care to get out of bed this morning.”

“Whadya mean you just don’t care to get out of bed this morning?”

“Mama, it’s just that I’m listless, and nothing seems worth the bother.  It’s not interesting or fun anymore.  So I just feel like blah and don’t feel like getting out of bed.”

“Whadya mean it’s just that you’re listless, and nothing seems worth the bother.  It’s not interesting or fun anymore.  So you just feel like blah and don’t feel like getting out of bed.”

“Mama, alright, alright, I’ll get out of bed already.  You don’t have to say anymore”

“So, Fishele, now you’re gonna get out of bed and you’re not depressed anymore?”

“No, Mama, no, Mama, I’m not depressed anymore, I’m not depressed anymore.

Good, now I know you’re not depressed anymore.

Mama was the best, unlicensed, therapeutic psychologist there ever was.