The light at the end of the tunnel is a train…
Depression is a disease. I happen to have it. Many people, like myself, with the added disease of alcoholism, also have it.
I am in the midst of it right now.
Depression doesn’t mean you walk around sad all day, although it could. For me, I’ve done some of my best comedy writing while battling with a bout of depression. That’s my way to cope. My brain somehow snaps into comedic action.
Admittedly, I probably shouldn’t have gone off my meds a few weeks ago because I was ‘feeling better.’ Now, I’m back on them. I’m not ‘feeling better.’
It always seems to happen that whenever I get hit with depression, everything else in my life goes South, too. I often think that is what spurs on the depression. If things…hell, if anything, went my way, I wouldn’t have depression at all.
On the other hand, perhaps if I did what I was told and stuck to my meds, things wouldn’t have gotten bad to begin with; or at least I’d be able to handle them better.
Besides the alcoholics, comedians are known to have depression a lot. One of my favorite authors, David Foster Wallace, succumbed to his depression and killed himself. Robin Williams can be counted among them. There are many others and it’s so comforting to know I’m in good company.
I’m thinking about starting up my standup comedy career, again. Perhaps, that’s the depression talking.
All I know is that right now I’m empty inside. I’m not gonna drink over it. I haven’t had a drink in almost 29 years. But the spiritual emptiness, is overwhelming.
I went to a new psychologist last week.
He’s an idiot.
Okay, so maybe he’s not an idiot, and it was only our first session, but he was really young. He carried a backpack. Shouldn’t psychologists carry a briefcase?
I think I scared him.
I want to cry. But I’m not a cryer. I actually tried and nothing happened. It didn’t hurt like the dry heaves, but it didn’t offer any satisfaction. My brain is definitely not wired right, and it’s such a shame, because I am such a nice guy.
I told my young psychologist that my brain thinks that it can kill me and yet it will continue to live.
That’s when I noticed he had developed a nervous twitch. The session ended with me writing him a prescription, and telling him we’ll meet next week.
I admire him. He can cry.