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Introduction
At 8:30 A.M . on September 11, 2001, from her office on the 105th floor of
the World Trade Center, my sister Karen called her best friend. No one
ever heard from Karen again.
Over the next few weeks, I helped organize a memorial service and a
fellowship in her name, signed a death certificate, and packed up all of
her belongings. Then my body gave out. For three months, I could not
sleep. As a result, I had a flu that would not leave me. I could not get out
of bed, and was no longer interested in reading books, seeing movies, or
listening to music. Yet I was surprised when friends told me they thought
I was depressed.
‘‘No, I’m just sick,’’ I said, resisting the idea. I was a psychiatrist, but
suddenly, for the first time in my life, had physical symptoms of de-
pression, and was amazed at the experience—how much it was more
bodily than emotional. My body had just given way beneath me.
For the first time, I fully appreciated what my patients had to undergo,
and how hard it is to put the experience of depression into words.
It was also hard to accept that I had a mental illness. I felt weak and
ashamed, and began to appreciate, too, the embarrassment and stigma my
patients felt.
I went to psychotherapy, memorial events, my temple and, for the
first time, a Buddhist service, and a psychic who claimed to communicate
with Karen—though as a physician, I was wary. I sat in Central Park in
the middle of the day, for the first time in my life doing nothing for
hours.
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