Recently I was #blessed to receive an advance copy of So Sad Today, which I read very quickly and enjoyed thoroughly (as much as one can âenjoyâ a book about living with a mental illness, anyway) and then gave to Emily. When I dropped it off at her house her kid was a little fussy.  Emily comforted him while we chatted, sort of murmuring nonsense stuff into his little ear and gently bouncing him, at one point repeating âWhy so sad? Why so sad?â to him in one tone of voice in between saying something completely different to me in another, and then I said âSo sad today!!â and we both looked at the book and at then at Raffi and laughed.  I look forward to running this joke into the ground.
What I liked about So Sad Today is that it takes the experience of severe, chronic depression and treats it, not with a detail-obsessed, third-person remove (here I am thinking about that David Foster Wallace story, âThe Depressed Personâ) or a first-person from-the-trenches account, either highly medicalized or ending in triumph (I once took The Noonday Demon to the beach. âYour beach read is a book about depression?â â EG), but as a joke.  A dark joke, with intense repercussions, but a joke.  Donât get me wrong; So Sad Today is, as the title suggests, very sad.  But it is trying to make the reader laugh.
I also treated my severe chronic depression like a joke. Â What I mean by this is that I didnât take it seriously. I didnât do anything about it for a very long time, and when someone tried to talk to me about how I was, really, about my depression, a close friend or medical professional, maybe, I would almost always lie or change the subject, in a way I considered to be a âjoke.â But it wasnât a joke, because my behavior was a. a deflection tactic, prima facie, and b. not funny. Â If a friend asks how you are, and you say, âFantastic!â, or worse, âYou know, fantastic!â, relying on their ability to read between the lines and intuit that by âyou knowâ Â you mean âYou know the nasty hoodie I call my âDarkness Visibleâ sweatshirt that never leaves my house? Well, Iâve been wearing it for 6 days straight,â you are not being funny. Â
With acquaintances and strangers it was much worse. âHa ha!â Iâd think. Â âThis person doesnât know that by âFantastic!â I mean, âI feel like I want to die 7 out of every 10 seconds!â Â What a hilarious brilliant use of irony! God, Iâm funny!â Right, yes, because all of this is so fucking hilarious and my own health will never be important enough for me to do anything about, because I hate myself â how funny.
Are all my jokes about listening to Mogwai and crying really jokes?
Are my jokes about listening to Mogwai and crying  just like 6 years ago really jokes?
I remember around the time I was doing this a lot, laughing at my awful inside jokes with myself about how I was actually âfine,â I also was a few months into a job that I had hoped would be temporary but ended up being pretty permanent. Â My responsibilities werenât enough to fill a complete 8 hour workday, so I spent a lot of time in a beige cubicle clicking around aimlessly on a computer and a lot of time hungover, because clicking around aimlessly on a computer was something I could do quite competently while hungover. Also if I was hungover almost daily I could attribute how bad I felt to the hangover, and not something scarier about my brain chemistry and general disposition. None of this was doing that brain chemistry and disposition any favors as far as feeling purposeful or worthwhile or hopeful about the future, either, but that didnât seem obvious or even connected. Â
Anyway, it was right around lunch, late October or November, grey and disgusting outside, and I was âfine.â An all-office email went out saying there was Turkish food in the conference room left over from a meeting, first come, first served.  The innocuous stampede of people moving towards the free food that always formed like clockwork 2-5 minutes following the receipt of such an email low-key amused me the way it always did â âPeople love free food!  Ha ha, weâre all such broke animals and life is nothing but a struggle to push someone else, at least one person, beneath youâ â and I joined it.  When I reached the buffet there was not much left, and nothing I really personally enjoyed (a small list of things, growing smaller by the day), but I put some random food on my plate.  This way at least I would not have to eat my packed lunch, which was doubtless horrible, like all meals I prepared, or go outside in the rain to waste money I didnât have on something else that would probably also be bad.  Then the person in front of me in line turned around quickly or stopped suddenly or maybe I wasnât paying attention and just walked right into them â whatever, the end result was that my plate flew out of my hand, up, high in the air, fully revolving at least once, and landed food-side-down on the carpet.  I can see a way in which this is spectacular and pretty genuinely funny, but in the moment I thought everyone in the room already hated me (because who didnât?) and I hated myself for being so clumsy and awful, and I burst into tears immediately, right there, in the conference room full of my nice, bookish, nonthreatening coworkers.  I knew I was way overreacting so while the person I had bumped into or whatever apologized I ran out of the room and into the stairwell. I didnât even pick the plate up from the floor or try to clean anything, which for me and my identity as a Helpful Person is a huge-ish deal.
Once I was safe in the stairwell sitting on the bare concrete landing I cried and cried.  I could not stop.  I thought about how I was crying over pretty literally spilt milk and cried even more about how stupid I was.  I cried about how there was tzatziki or something all over my dress, which was old and stained already and didnât really fit me or look good anymore because I had lost weight and also chopped off all my hair, and how I didnât have anything else to wear that I didnât also hate, at home or in the world, and about how if I tried to shop for something new I would just loathe myself for all the money I had ever spent and didnât have and then I wouldnât be able to actually make a decision and buy something, anything, anyway, just like I could not currently  make a decision about the most inconsequential things, such as as to whether to eat my packed lunch or go out for food or go back to the conference room and clean up my mess and get some different Turkish leftovers.  I kept crying and crying, really awful, uncontrollable, silent but wet Claire Danes-style sobs, for a long time.  I would slow down for a while but I couldnât really stop.  Finally I just left work for the day, even though it was maybe 1:45, because I thought I was probably going to die.
We hyperbolize as a way to express ourselves strongly.  If we prefer a certain shade of nail polish, weâre obsessed with it. When I donât like someone, I say theyâre worthless.  I wanted to die, it was so terrible, we say, about an inconvenient travel experience. Â
The thing about depression is that it does not recognize hyperbole. Life is worthless, you are worthless, none of this will ever change and things will always be this way, except the future, which while staying the same will also somehow certainly be worse. You know these to be facts the way you know your birthday and your eye color.
My Darkness Visible hoodie might be a punchline, but it is not a joke. Â I spent a long time not really understanding the difference, but now I do.
ââWe convince ourselves we can own the identity of the anxious or depressed person. Â Then it sneaks up again.â Â Itâs like I got this. Â Then the mental illness is like, No, Iâve got you.â
I read that and felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. Â I might have actually involuntarily said, âoof.â Â I cried some, not as much as on the day of the Turkish food buffet, but some. Â
I am better now. Â In February, I finally started seeing a non-crappy therapist. Â In March, I began seeing a non-crappy psychiatrist. Sometime in April I started feeling better. Â I remember I was walking to or from Emilyâs house, waiting for the light to change on the corner of St. James and Greene. Â I felt weird. Â I wasnât dreading something I couldnât understand or describe, I didnât instantly hate everything I saw and felt, nothing annoyed me, I didnât wish I was in bed. Â I didnât feel empty or raw or worthless, or like I needed to be alone in the dark. I hadnât cried yesterday or the day before. There were things I wanted to do in addition to seeing Emily that day, and I knew I would do them. Â Â Is this a good mood? I wondered. Â Is this what being in a good mood feels like?
Now I am in a good mood more often than not.  I still get sad, and I still have days when I feel terrible and my mood sucks. I have days where I am terrified that my wellbeing is a fluke and itâs just a matter of time before I am back to being So Sad Forever.  I also get sad sometimes about everything I lost or never did during the many years I was depressed. I lost friends and opportunities and relationships and a LOT of money, it turns out. When I read that a couple weeks ago â âNo, Iâve got you,â â I felt sad for what a stupid lie I had believed for so long, the lie I had to tell myself about how my feelings were a joke, even though they almost killed me. Because Iâm a smart person who doesnât have feelings, or canât be serious about them, because thatâs not cool.  Or something.  I donât know.  I donât have to know everything anymore.  I donât even know why I wrote this, except to say â to promise â that if you feel this way, you donât have to either.  I know that seems crazy and pointless,  and you donât have to believe me.  I wouldnât â didnâtâ believe me. But you donât.
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