I’ll call him the anonymous patient. Press enter or click to view image in full size That’s not exactly what he is — he’s a friend, not a case file, and I’m not his doctor but it’s the phrase he asked me to use when I told him I might write any of this down. “Don’t put my name in it, man. Just call me the anonymous patient or something.” So that’s what we’re doing. He’s thirty-eight. Married nine years, two kids, a mid-level finance job he doesn’t hate but doesn’t love either. He runs three times a week slowly, the way men our age run, more about not falling apart than getting fit. He drinks maybe four beers on a weekend. By any reasonable standard, the guy’s healthy. But about a year ago, things started changing. Not all at once. Just… slowly. A flatter mood in the mornings. Less interest in stuff he used to love. Andthis is the part he didn’t tell anyone for months, the bedroom stuff stopped being reliable. Some nights fine. Other nights, just… not.…