The Worship of Depression
Hot take: We as a Western society like depression. We like darkness. We like the “broken” guy. Take a look at shows like Rick and Morty, BBC’s Sherlock (to some extent), House M.D., Bojack Horseman, Doc Martin, and many others. We always like to see how this “weird” but “smart” guy struggles with his relationship and struggles to be a better person.
That’s all well and good... IF we keep in mind that he is the abnormality. Not us. The problem lies in him, not me. Where he represents some universal condition, it is not necessarily an inevitable one.
The lead characters of all these shows tend to have a pessimistic view of life. Take Dr. House especially. “Life is pain”, he says. And so he drives almost everyone away. They think the universe is meaningless and godless (literally and figuratively). We would be stupid to take their advice. Clearly there is something wrong with them. House has an addiction and tries to solve his loneliness through work and prostitutes, Morty is alcoholic and also lonely, Bojack is depressed, Martin has anxiety. Healthy people have none of these. So what they say should be taken with a grain of salt.
Two shows point to a better world. Sherlock starts out like the guys above: cold, analytical, unappreciative of relationships. But we quickly realise - and Sherlock himself quickly realises - that he is the one missing out. There is some healthy view of the world that he, in all his genius, never realised. In Season 3 there is this one scene where Sherlock and his brother Mycroft have a little game. They try to one-up each other by analysing a stranger’s hat:
(See the vid below)
Sherlock: A quick sniff of the offending bobble tells us all we need to know about the state of his breath.
Mycroft: Brilliant! Elementary.
Sherlock: But you've missed his isolation.
Mycroft: I don't see it.
Sherlock: Plain as day.
Mycroft: Where?
Sherlock: There for all to see.
Mycroft: Tell me.
Sherlock: Plain as the nose on your -
Mycroft: Tell me!
Sherlock: Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?
By the third season Sherlock has grown, and this has helped him even in his intellectual pursuits. He could have stuck to his isolation and obsessiveness, but he didn’t. He opened up and really started to care for John and the others. It was through his empathy that he recognised the stranger’s isolation. That’s good. That’s growth.
The other show, which is even better, is Lucifer. On the surface Lucifer is everything that’s bad about our obsession with the anti-hero: violent, destructive, has orgies, ignores important problems, hides his feelings... But the creators of the show always keeps it very clear to the audience that Lucifer is the one with the issue. Lucifer has the “daddy issues”. Lucifer himself often admits this. In fact his entire therapy thing is an attempt to deal with a recognition that he has the problem. Not Cloe, he. We should not emulate him. We can study him, and laugh at him, and cry for him. But not copy him.
The point of everything is this: depressed does NOT equal depth or intelligence. What is sad is not necessarily true. What is pessimistic is not necessarily realistic. Quite the opposite usually. We have a tendency for taking the sad guy to be the one with the right view of life, and the happy guy to be the one with the naive and stupid view of life. Why? What is the rational reason for this? We do so because we think in our heart of hearts that life really is meaningless. But if it is NOT meaningless, then of course the happy man would be the right one. We shouldn’t mock him.
Now, of course if the universe is meaningless then we should agree with Dr. House. And if it has meaning, we should agree with Dr. Wilson. But suppose we don’t know whether it is meaningless or not. If we don’t know the facts, then shouldn’t we chose the healthier option? The view that is conducive to happiness, relationships, and love? Isn’t it the more “fitting”?
I think linked to the “depression equals depth” assumption is the idea that happy people are naive. That they do not know pain. The idea that everyone who really knows pain would be cynical and depressed. But surely the facts don’t show that? All the great people in history have known suffering. Most of the happy people you know might even have suffered more than the rest. In fact, it is usually those with the most pain in life who somehow manage to be the happiest in spite of it all. And we envy them for that.
It is easy to be sad. You simply let your sadness overwhelm you. It doesn’t take effort. You just allow it. But to be happy is difficult. To be grateful is an exercise. To overcome and see past your own pain is a skill. It takes effort. And we don’t like that.
One fictional character that encompasses an awareness of suffering, and yet stays happy, is Father Brown. You might have heard about him. He is a creation of G. K. Chesterton. He appears has a kind of detective priest who solves crime by looking at the characters of people.
In Chesterton’s autobiography he explained how the glory of Father Brown lies not in him being some naive priest, but rather in a priest that is more aware of evil than others, but doesn’t let it overwhelm him. He transcends it. He based Brown on a person he knew in real life: Father John o’Connor:
I mentioned to the priest in conversation that I proposed to support in print a certain proposal, it matters not what, in connection with some rather sordid social questions of vice and crime. On this particular point he thought I was in error, or rather in ignorance; as indeed I was. And, merely as a necessary duty and to prevent me from falling into a mare's nest, he told me certain facts he knew about perverted practices which I certainly shall not set down or discuss here.
I have confessed on an earlier page that in my own youth I had imagined for myself any amount of iniquity; and it was a curious experience to find that this quiet and pleasant celibate had plumbed those abysses far deeper than I. I had not imagined that the world could hold such horrors. If he had been a professional novelist throwing such filth broadcast on all the bookstalls for boys and babies to pick up, of course he would have been a great creative artist and a herald of the Dawn. As he was only stating them reluctantly, in strict privacy, as a practical necessity, he was, of course, a typical Jesuit whispering poisonous secrets in my ear.
When we returned to the house, we found it was full of visitors, and fell into special conversation with two hearty and healthy young Cambridge undergraduates, who had been walking or cycling across the moors in the spirit of the stern and vigorous English holiday. They were no narrow athletes, however, but interested in various sports and in a breezy way in various arts; and they began to discuss music and landscape with my friend Father O'Connor. I never knew a man who could turn with more ease than he from one topic to another, or who had more unexpected stores of information, often purely technical information, upon all.
The talk soon deepened into a discussion on matters more philosophical and moral; and when the priest had left the room, the two young men broke out into generous expressions of admiration, saying truly that he was a remarkable man, and seemed to know a great deal about Palestrina or Baroque architecture, or whatever was the point at the moment. Then there fell a curious reflective silence, at the end of which one of the undergraduates suddenly burst out. "All the same, I don't believe his sort of life is the right one. It's all very well to like religious music and so on, when you're all shut up in a sort of cloister and don't know anything about the real evil in the world. But I don't believe that's the right ideal. I believe in a fellow coming out into the world, and facing the evil that's in it, and knowing something about the dangers and all that. It's a very beautiful thing to be innocent and ignorant; but I think it's a much finer thing not to be afraid of knowledge."
To me, still almost shivering with the appallingly practical facts of which the priest had warned me, this comment came with such a colossal and crushing irony, that I nearly burst into a loud harsh laugh in the drawing-room. For I knew perfectly well that, as regards all the solid Satanism which the priest knew and warred against with all his life, these two Cambridge gentlemen (luckily for them) knew about as much of real evil as two babies in the same perambulator.
And so, to end my much too long post, I will make my point clear: there is nothing necessarily deep in being sad. And there’s nothing necessarily superficial in being happy. Don’t be depressed because you think it is deep. Don’t envy those who are clearly unhappy. Don’t mistake joy for foolishness.
P. S. I am not making any comment on depression as an actual psychological disease. I understand that this is not always a choice. But this just reinforces my point: clearly depression isn’t healthy. So we shouldn’t emulate it. We should pity and help those who have it, but we are idiots if we think people who suffer from it are somehow “deeper” and “more profound” than our happy Christian neighbour. There’s something this neighbour - who has the same problems us we - realise that we don’t.










