I “met” Mike through his work as a reporter at a mid-sized daily newspaper. He wrote a weekly column for the life style section. It was a twisted combination of humor and satire. Saucy, witty, and off-beat, Mike had a unique take on life in our Virginia town.

I’d been reading it for years when his paper began publishing the writer’s e-mail addresses and inviting comments. Mike had written a column about a transvestite beauty pageant held at a local university. I sent him a note telling him the local district attorney had once participated in the pageant back in the 80s. I figured this would give him a good laugh.

I was pleasantly surprised when he wrote back—and so began our virtual friendship. We exchanged e-mails regularly, discussing local topics, national politics, music, and things that made us laugh. If there was something quirky on the Web, Mike would be the first to forward it to me. We occasionally discussed serious topics or shared personal stories, but mostly we just bantered back and forth.

And we both battled depression. There was a dark thread running through our humorous exchanges. Sometimes I think we laughed to keep from crying. In 2002, Mike wrote an article on depression, interviewing experts on the topic and sharing his personal experience getting treatment. The article, part of the newspaper’s larger series on suicide, received a strong response, generating loads of positive letters and phone calls and a witty response from Mike. The series later won a press award.

Mike’s openness in discussing depression and its treatment helped me reach a point where I could admit I needed help. I’d been experiencing episodes of depression since my teens, and as I got older, the episodes seemed to come more frequently and last longer. I’d always felt I had my life under control. I’d successfully dealt with some serious losses, and yet my depression robbed me of the confidence, energy, and physical and emotional resources I needed to seek treatment.

Acknowledging that this was a problem—no, an illness--that I couldn’t conquer on my own was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was swallowed by an enormous sense of inertia and failure. It took everything I had to pick up the phone and call a doctor.

After a physical exam and blood tests ruled out other ailments, I began taking a very low dose of an antidepressant and responded to it almost immediately. The medication’s side effects (sleeplessness, dry mouth, headaches) dissipated in the first two weeks, and I felt like my best and truest self. It wasn’t until I began to recover that I realized just how much joy my depression had drained from my life. That was three years ago, and while my depression is chronic, it’s under control—and for that blessing, I’m intensely grateful.