‘I wouldn’t call it a breakdown, I guess I’d say it was a fairly serious episode of depression.’

‘Why were you depressed?’

‘There’s not always a reason.’ Pause to think. ‘I had a chemical imbalance in my brain, for sure, and I needed medication to fix it. But it was also more complicated than that.’

‘In what way?’

He sighs loudly and I can tell he’s having trouble keeping his patience and let me tell you I’m having patience issues at having to drag it out of him sentence by sentence. Does he think it’s easy for me to ask him these questions?

‘It was complicated, because I was under a lot of stress at the time. Business was bad and I was working punishing hours and not taking care of myself, and I had no tools at all to manage my stress.’

‘Huh.’ I think about the medicine cabinet. ‘Do you still take medication?’

‘No. It got me through a crisis period and then I focussed on my lifestyle and therapy and after a couple of years I could manage without it. I still have to stay balanced though, you know, exercise, eat well, meditate.’

I snort. ‘Just because you keep your gym bag on the back seat doesn’t mean you actually do any exercise. Come on, Dad. I don’t think you take care of yourself as much as you think you do.’

‘I hear you, Natalia. You’re right, I should keep it in mind.’

Dad eyeballs me seriously. I wish he wouldn’t take his eyes off the road so much.

‘You should do more than keep it in mind. I know you don’t always feel good. I do have eyes, you know.’ My voice sounds ever so slightly choked.

‘I don’t want you to worry about me too much, but there’s no miracle cure for depression, you know?’ He’s quiet. ‘It’s more a matter of managing it as best I can. I do have rough patches still.’

All I remember about Dad’s depression is that he stopped working and stayed home a lot and didn’t do any of the normal things I was used to. And he cried more than usual and lost his temper more than usual too. And I wonder if that’s not how I’ve been these past few months. Like him. The thought scares me.

‘How do you not drown in your emotions?’ The questions burst out of me. ‘How do you control your thoughts when they’re going everywhere?’

How do you know when your brain has gone too far, like it’s gotten too weird in there?

‘What kind of thoughts?’

Dad sticks his indicator on, and when it’s safe, he pulls over by the side of the road.

‘What kind of thoughts?’ he says again.

‘Everything,’ I say.

He waits. I don’t want to say.