He was an urban youth.  I could not even determine his racial origin and I had to ask him (county regulations – tracking who it paid for – not my choice). It was mixed, and essentially indeterminate, a regular American melting-pot.

His head was shaved, so I could not make any guesses on the basis of hair type. There were facial tattoos, of the tribal sort, lots of triangles, but nothing as fiercely antisocial as some of the obscene drawings or sayings I had seen tattooed on prison inmates faces.  Or in the case before me – ex-cons. And there was one of those little cylinders in his earlobe –the kind that men wear to stretch the open hole in their earlobes large enough to allow passage by a small sparrow.  I believe the tradition is for tribal identity to prove something about achievement in the face of pain.  It differs according to whom you ask, and this young man was not ripe for asking about that topic.

“I’m depressed.  Real depressed.”

I wanted to know why.  “I got kids.  Seven of them, three different states.  The seventh one was born three days ago.  I was with the Mommy, and we were really happy because he looks just like me.”

Quite an achievement for someone only 22 years old. However, my congratulations did not bring him solace. “I guess you aren’t feeling too great about it, though, or else you wouldn’t be here, feeling depressed.”

At least he wasn’t suicidal.  I could treat him as an outpatient. Read more on Male Postpartum Depression (Yes — MALE!)…