I'm Not Depressed

I haven’t quite felt like myself lately.

We’ve all been there. Not a big deal. It happens. Often for me, it happens in mid-summer, after weeks of humidity and copious sweating take a toll, and as I see my precious supply of 3-day summer weekends slipping through my fingers. It certainly doesn’t help when even a brief glimpse in the direction of the news injects my mind with a daily onslaught of sad and horrifying developments that jolt my overstimulated nervous system and make me wonder what kind of dreary, democracy-deficient country my 2 young kids might inherit.

I won’t belabor that, though. Politics is not the point here. The point is this: I’ve felt a little bit off lately. But I know I’m not depressed. And the reason I know beyond a doubt that I’m not depressed is because nearly every day, something vividly reminds me what it felt like when I was depressed in 2024. Deeply, horrifyingly engulfed by the jet-back thundercloud of depression.

No matter where I go, no matter what I do, something reminds me of this.

When I’m at work, I remember what it was like to be depressed at work that summer.

Summer is the slow season at my workplace, and I remember pacing around the empty hallways like a man on death row. Like a trapped rat in one of those rat mazes, but one with no exit. I remember retreating to empty offices to sit on a chair, slumped over, eyes closed, wide awake, longing to escape consciousness for 5 or 10 minutes. I remember sitting there, sweaty and agitated and trying desperately not to think, until I heard a door close down the hall and felt horribly guilty, compelled to scurry back to my office. Once back at my post, relieved that I “got away with it” again, I remember having so many hours to fill but possessing no will to do anything, not even waste time on social media, because my soul was bare and life seemed unbearably hollow.

When I’m at home with the kids, I remember what it was like to be depressed at home with the kids that summer.

I remember retreating to my bedroom to lay on my bed in the dark, eyes closed, wide awake, longing to escape consciousness for 30 or 60 minutes… until I took my earbuds out and heard my kids’ voices downstairs and realized how long I had been neglecting them, leaving my wife to do all the emotional labor, and felt horribly guilty, compelled to go back downstairs. I remember pausing in agony at the top of the stairs, frozen in place for 2 or 3 minutes. Possessing no will to do anything, not even go play with my delightful kids, because my soul was bare and life seemed unbearably hollow.

When I’m in the company of my extended family, I remember what it was like to be depressed in the company of my extended family that summer.

I remember being chewed up with anxiety at the mere thought of visiting my brother’s family or my parents, despite us having a close-knit family that quite enjoys each other’s company. I remember crawling out of my skin after an hour or two of visiting them, feeling I had nothing to say, and looking forward to my only relief: Getting home and lying down yet again, with no one who expected anything from me, just wishing the world away for as long as I could.

I remember late that summer, when my brother from California flew out for a visit, nervously saying to both my brothers as we walked into our parents’ house, “Guys, honestly, I feel terribly self-conscious… do you understand that I’m depressed and have absolutely nothing to contribute? Is that okay?” I remember them being so kind, of course, because they love me unconditionally. But I remember having to try so hard to believe them that it was okay and that I should be in their company even without a whiff of confidence, without an ounce of good humor, without anything to say that felt remotely worth saying.

I could go on itemizing all the things I remember about that summer, but I’ve already catalogued them at great length in many other posts. What I really want to say today, partly to myself, is:

I’m not depressed right now. But I don’t quite feel like myself. And because of that, I haven’t felt all that inspired to write lately. Even this piece you’re reading, I had to kick myself in the butt to get it started. And I have to kick myself now not to second-guess it and leave this in the drafts folder because it’s too similar to other pieces, or because it doesn’t feel inspired enough for publication.

But sometimes, I write simply to assert myself, my self, when my sense of self is a bit faded. Sometimes I write, even when I can’t think of something to write.

I write in order to sound my barbaric yawp, or even my slightly enfeebled yawp, from the roofs of the world. I’m sure even Walt Whitman didn’t always feel suitably barbaric to write one of his poems. But yawps come in many shapes, sizes, and volume levels.

Nonetheless, we write. We write because we are human. We write to bear witness to the wide spectrum of feelings and experiences that come with being human. We write, or we try to write, without judging our own writing too harshly.

Next week will bring what it will. But this week, despite my off-ness, I showed up. For my kids, for my family, for my workplace, for my blog, for myself. And that’s all any of us can do.

Just. Keep. Showing. Up.

Here, for my own reasons, is a picture of me headbanging my ever-loving heart out to Caspian at Dunk!festival in Belgium a few months ago. Maaaaaaaan was that epic.