One afternoon, I sat in my living room and looked around at my belongings. There was the large cabinet that held souvenirs from my adventures working on Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign. There was my book collection (organized by size and color), the college degree I had worked so hard to obtain, and a display of carefully selected photos with my friends and loved ones.
But as I stared at all these objects, the symbols that represented the life I had created for myself, I sobbed inconsolably. From the corner of my eye, I could see a hardcover copy of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. I recalled Friedan’s writing about the unhappiness that plagued middle-class women of the 1950s and 60s. I never thought I would relate to these women, who, on the surface seemed content, yet upon closer inspection, were miserable. Friedan called it “the problem which has no name.”
I knew I had a problem, but unlike the one Friedan wrote about, mine did have a name: depression.
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