About ten years ago, when I been in a low functioning stalemate with my funk for several years, I suggested to my psychiatrist that I believed it was possible that my treatment had been of limited success because my diagnosis could be wrong. I told him that perhaps I did not have major depression, but instead schizophrenia with almost entirely negative symptoms such as anhedonia. He greeted this suggestion with his usual stone expression. At that moment I realized that I could have told him anything outrageous, such as telling him I could channel the Buddhist monks who immolated themselves in protest of the Vietnam war, and he wouldn’t have reacted to my words at all. Maybe he was tuned into details like my body language and appearance to gauge how well I was functioning. I don’t think that my outfit, which had been slept in, or my hair, which hadn’t been cut in four years, contradicted the possibility that I had negative symptoms of schizophrenia. My affect was wooden as well. I felt more disordered than the bland term major depression would suggest.