Four months after my slide into depression became a freefall, I bottomed out in a psychiatric facility.

I barely recognized myself in the facility’s bathroom mirror. My eyes were startled, and my lips were unable to smile. Any attempt at one resulted in a rictus, a twisted grimace, as though I was trying and failing to replicate what I thought a smile should look like. For me, this is what depression feels (and looks) like.

Despite my brain’s inability to do much more than grasp where I was and race around the confines of my skull, desperate to escape, I noticed how colorless my mouth looked. I wasn’t wearing any lipstick.

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