"Daddy, there's something I've got to tell you..."

I'm gay. Haha. No, not really, but I couldn't resist. It just seemed to follow on. No, what I really had to tell my dad is that I think I'm depressed. This is how the conversation went:

Me: "Dad, I think I need to see a doctor."
Dad: "Why?"
"I think that I might be suffering from depression."
"What do you mean, 'suffering from depression'?"
"I mean that I'm depressed."
"Well why do you think that you're depressed?"
"Because I am."
"No you're not."
"No, I am."
"No you're not."
"No, I am."
"Okay then, we'll go and see a doctor this week."

As can be seen, my dad didn't take it very well, displaying classic denial symptoms. He seemed very uneasy with the news. Personally I think that the reason for this is twofold. Firstly, I'm kind of the level-headed one in the family, don't really let anything get to me. Revealing that I'm depressed shows that I'm not impervious to what the world has to throw at me, and I guess it's a bit of a shock for him, and in a way a little threatening. Bit weird I guess for me, the son, to be playing that role in the family, but I do. Secondly, my mum's on holiday with my sister this week, so I intentionally told him now because I don't want her finding out (she tends to blow things about of proportion). This means that he'll have to do his first bit of parenting since the days of changing nappies, which is a daunting task for anyone.

To be honest, I expected him to take it better than he did, although the timing of it didn't help. I was eating dinner in the kitchen, just finishing off, whilst he was cooking something for himself. The plan was that I told him then got out quick, leaving him to finish his cooking. Then by the time he'd finished eating it, he'd probably have forgotten that the entire conversation had taken place. As it was, every time I tried to tell him he just said: "Hold on a minute." By the time he was actually ready to hear what I had to say he'd naturally finished cooking and sat down opposite me at the table. This meant I had to go way further than I'd wanted to and be subject to the whole bloody Spanish Inquisition in my very own kitchen. He then went on to suggest we went up to see Watford (the football club) together when the season starts (we haven't been to a match in two years) and told me to sit down and watch some telly with him (the equivalent of "Let's have a conversation!" in a normal family). So yeah, he seems to be acting kind of strangely, but at least I'm finally going to see a doctor about it, and hopefully this is the beginning of the end. The beginning of the end that isn't a downwards spiral towards suicide.

On a non-depression related note, Viral's dad has finally admitted defeat in his mission to change my name. For those of you who do not know the story, Viral is a friend of mine from school, whose dad has always insisted on calling me Ben, probably as a result of Viral and other friends affectionately calling me "Benji" when he was within earshot. Not realising that this nickname is in fact derived from my surname, he naturally assumed that my first name was Ben. Despite being corrected by myself, Viral and numerous other friends on many occasions, he has remained adamant (there's a pun there...) that he was not wrong, and nearly always provided a response along the lines of: "Adam, Adam, yes, of course. So, Ben..." Today however, this all seemed to change. After Viral typically managed to lose 27 sheets of Oxbridge maths questions, his dad phoned my house to tell me that he was out shopping in Harrow and to ask me if it would be okay if he popped in on his way home to pick up the maths sheets for copying. Incredibly, during the ensuing telephone conversation, he managed to refer to me as "Adam" at every calling, without fail. I suspected that as this was a telephone conversation that he may not have actually been aware of who he was talking to, but upon arriving at my house he managed to get my name right with identical consistence. Amazing.