Depression for Dummies

The play by play of a coping strategy.

You hate it when your friends call you to complain.

“How silly,” you think, “If they’re this unhappy, why won’t they just change their

lives?”

You think you’re a happy person.

You laugh.

A lot.

You make jokes about your friends (you think you’re fuckin hilarious).

They make jokes about you (you think they’re not).

You’ve got a job that you enjoy.

A house you can call home.

And a home team that you adore.

You’re a terrible cook, but all things considered, you don’t mind.

And then something bad happens.

Your dog dies.

You’re upset. So you break down. And you cry.

In a desperate bid to lift your spirits,

you go out to your favourite diner and order your favourite burger.

Food makes everything better.

You take a bite.

Its tastes like saw dust.

You have now lost your appetite.

You get home and curl up in a ball.

That’s it,

you’re officially setting time aside to feel shitty.

You feebly pat yourself on the back for this excellent strategy.

Through the window, you can see that the sun is going down.

The sky is a golden red.

Its stunning.

You lift your head a little to get a better look.

You don’t.

So you go back to feeling sorry for yourself.

The next few days are a nightmare.

You don’t want to be sad... but you’re not happy.

You call that friend who complains a lot, and complain a lot.

It doesn’t work. It never works.

You go back and forth between being ‘mildly depressed’ to being ‘pretty fucking

numb.’

You scroll through your timeline listlessly.

You find a picture of your dog on a bright sunny day.

You look at her eyes.

“She was happy,” your mind offers involuntarily, “She lived a good life.”

You try to find consolation in that fact.

It doesn’t help.

And before you realize it, you’re bawling again.

Later that night your sister comes over with some Chinese food.

You watch the new Game of Thrones episode together.

You think about what a crazy mofo that Cersie Lannister is.

You secretly admire her a little.

But then Arya Stark bumps into her giant dog.

And your heart is broken all over again.

You call in sick at work.

It’s been two weeks.

So you’re starting to wonder why you’re being such a pansy idiot.

You stay home and schedule some more crying anyway.

Nothing. Not a single tear.

“How silly,” your mind pipes in, “If you’re this unhappy, why won’t you just

change your life?” And you smile, because you have now become the

establishments you once rejected.

You wake up freakishly early one morning.

The house is unusually quiet.

The sun is barely up.

The sky is pink and blue.

You lift your head to get a better look.

You don’t.

You get out of bed, put on your running shoes and sneak out of the apartment.

Careful not to wake anyone up.

You don’t want company right now.

You look around.

You’ve never run on this street before.

You plug in whatever music you have on your phone.

And with baby steps, you run into the unknown.

You’ve had an excellent run.

You now believe that you have been cured.

So, you write an article about it and post it online.

You read it back to yourself.

It makes little sense.

You delete it, immediately.