BLOG: SANTA FOR GROWN-UPS
Fuck the gays. It’s not a choice? So what? That doesn’t mean shit.
Sorry, bad way to start. Holed up in my room. I don’t mean all of what I just said. But the argument of “it’s not a choice” is not a valid crosswalk to rights. Being a murderer is not a choice. Ditto with pedophiles and rapists. Nobody’s opting in to those programs. Those aren’t impulse buys. Those are deep-seeded emotional conflicts that are too strong to control.
But, more importantly (read: concerns ME), depression is not a choice. But we – the depressed – have no rights. We are outcast. We are picked on. Targeted. Bullied.
Gays can’t get married? Depressed people can’t get married either. We either get left by the people who get close to us (for “bringing them down”) or we spend enough time alone where we completely deconstruct even having a relationship at all to the point of total nihilism. Her back rubs and home-cooked meals end up having the same net effect on me as a centipede crawling around my apartment: “Oh, look… That.” Even if we can survive the gauntlet of monogamy and commitment, we still have the hurdle of the actual marriage to conquer. Rings, showers, contracts, people. Ugh. Sounds horrible. I’d rather download another season of The Wire.
We’re not free to express ourselves. I can’t show up for school or work at noon in sweatpants without a shower. If someone on the train asks me for the time, I can’t respond with, “AAAUGHHHH! Again with the questions!” Our desire for complete seclusion (along with the concurrent, completely hypocritical desire of total acceptance) is constantly violated by the bigoted assumption that we are not depressed. Leave us the fuck alone. Just let us buy our burritos and eat them and crawl back into bed because our beds will take us in any state, not just the one where we smile.
There is no collective empathy for the depressed. There is no comfort when I assume my roommate incorrectly put the dishes in the dishwasher as a concentrated fuck you to me. “Why the fuck would the plates go there? “This isn’t a scrap heap where we just chuck everything in and turn the knobs. There is a system! Everyone is so stupid. If everyone would just be more like me…” Yeah, what a world that would be. Then we could all project our self-hatred onto the rest of the world and try to convince ourselves that constitutes a “perspective.”
See, even I can’t stand me. So, I empathize with the world even if it doesn’t empathize with me. There is no depression pride parade. (Mostly because we wouldn’t wake up in time.) There is no depression neighborhood in town. (Who wants to move? Boxes, lifting, ugh.)
You may say that society DOES offer us options: antidepressants, therapy, etc. But why can’t we embrace our depression? Why can’t we say, “You know what, world? Fuck you. I’m not playing by your arbitrary set of rules. This is who I am. Accommodate ME, not vice versa. It’s society’s fault I’m in this mess to begin with. If we all lived the way we’re supposed to live, I wouldn’t feel this way at all. It’s your pressures exerted on me that make me want to die.” Where’s that pill? The pill that opens your mind to ideas outside what your told? Oh right… We can’t have everyone seeing through the facade. Mushrooms are outlawed.
For fun, let’s imagine they offered a similar option for gay people. A pill that you take everyday that makes you not want to fuck your own sex/gender! Two words: rainbow riots.
Another problem with depression is that from the outside, depression looks like vacation. Sleep in late, watch movies, masturbate, eat pizza. What a day! Unfortunately, the crumbling sense of self is invisible to others. The inability to latch on to anything meaningful doesn’t quite reflect photons as effectively as, say, the cake plate on your stomach. But, depression is almost a hyper-awareness. This external reality presents itself and throws on yet another layer of depression. “Look at me. All sad because I’m eating food and watching things all day. Ugh. What a complete waste. You can’t even enjoy things people would kill to do. Where are they? They’re at work, making money for their families. You are sitting on a couch contemplating whether or not you could have been great at yo-yo if you had stuck with it. Why the fuck would anyone bother to love you? You’re too scared to go out into the world because you know it will tell you what a useless faggot you are.”
It’s around this point that you have a brief moment of pseudo inspiration. “Wait. I can’t let my feelings control me. I need to get out! Do something! Sunlight is good. Eat an apple. Work out. Clean my room. Meet a friend for coffee. Write something. Make things happen.” But then, “What’s the point? Now I’m just doing stuff so I forget about how terrible everything else is? I don’t want to be one of those guys who writes a check list of things to do to feel happy. ‘Whenever I’m feeling a little down, I just get out my vacuum and start sucking away. Put on a little Rolling Stones and just clean the day away.’ That guy sucks. I don’t want to be that guy. How many fucking levels of quotes are in here? Can I realistically convey multiple voices to a reader? Is this even still worthwhile? Have I gotten anywhere? Stop asking questions. Too many questions. Not enough answers. Well, what the fuck is an answer anyway? Nothing sticks. It’s all just made up shit and people just accept things so it’s easier. They’re all phonies… Oh yeah, YOU have all the answers. You’ve got it figured out. Nothing gets past you. What a keen mind you have. So keen you can’t even get up to brush your teeth. You just tell yourself how stupid everyone is so you don’t have to feel bad about how inadequate you are. You’re just pissed off you’re not smart enough to write a book…” And on and on and on…