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Well, it's official. On Wednesday my doctor confirmed that I have major depression. He set me on a 50mg dose of zoloft, and I'm to start seeing a therapist on campus. He diagnosed me after I just told him about the sleeping and isolation. Shit, he didn't even see the cuts on my ankle or the old scars on my wrist. The drugs take a few weeks to kick in, and I'm really hoping they help. I think the therapist might be okay, I can dump all my emotional issues on someone else for a change. I just layed in my bed last night thinking over the past 18, almost 19 years, and now I'm wondering why I was surprised to find out that I'm so screwed up. If they only knew the half of it.