This is the call I received at work today. "At work" being the key words in this phrase.

"Hello?"

"Helllllllllllllloooooooooooooo Partyyyyygirl."

It's my brother.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Nothin'"

Silence.

"You know I got an interesting call from Mom today," he says. "She's very concerned about you. Very concerned. She said, 'PG's just not herself anymore. She had to come over to borrow money...she has no money...and she's not happy. When she comes over she looks sad and seems down. I think she's Depressed.'" (I'm sure she said it with a captial "D")

"She even used the P Word," he tells me.

"The P Word?" I ask. "What's the P Word," assuming it was "pregnant."

"Prozac!" he exclaimed. "She thought you might go on it for a few months! You know she thinks it's the wonder drug," he says conspiratorily.

"Prozac!!!" I gasped. "She thinks I need PROZAC!?"

"Now I'm thinking," he continues,"that when I see you on Friday's you are down half a bottle of vodka, 3-sheets to the wind and very happy, but I didn't tell mom that part," he finishes, like he did me a favor.

"Ha!" I say, confused. Is this some sort of intervention, I wonder. Over the phone, at work?

"Well, I hate to see my little sunshine down, so what's the matter? Are you depressed," he asks in a patronizing voice.

"Well, it could be that 6 people I know died by going to work last Fall," I toss out nonchalantly.

"Nope, that's not it," he assured me. "That was almost a year ago. It must be something else. Is it work? Is it NYC? What is it?"

"I'm having a delayed reaction to what happened in September. You have no idea what I went through..."

"Oh, I know!" he reassures me. "It was a tough time."

"Hello! I was called to a MORGUE to identify remains of a friend! I watched trucks unload bodies and miscellaneous body parts in body bags. I was trapped on this island."

"Oh, I know, you were under attack," he says.

"Right. I was in a war zone. I have PTSD."

"PTSD?" he asks.

"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just like vets got in Vietnam. I'm F-ed up."

"You know what I think? I think you need to change up your routine," he suggests as if it's just a matter of switching from eggs to cereal in the mornings.

I start to stare out my window at the skyline.

"Like the subway," he continues. "You could switch from the bus to a subway to a cab."

"I always switch up my routine. On days that I think some psycho terrorist is going to blow up a bus, I take the subway. On days I think the subway's are going to be bombed, I take the bus. And on days when I can't decide, well then, I take a taxi."

Silence.

"Well, maybe you should think about seeing..." and before he could utter "therapist," I said it and added, "no thanks. I don't need to pay to hear someone tell me what I know. That I need to grieve and re-establish areas of stability in my life. Do activities that make me feel empowered."

"Well, I think you should go out for dinner tonight! Call up a friend and go out."

I rolled my eyes as I stared out my window and said half-heartedly, "Yeah. Maybe I'll do that."

I told him I had to go and hung up the phone.

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