At Least This Essay Isn't About Mother's Day

On depression.

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This essay should come with a warning label, so here it goes:

It’s a bit hostile.

I’m well aware. But I write about what’s going on, and for two weeks, I’ve successfully avoided writing about my depression. I’m really pissed off I can’t think of anything else to write.

This is what I have. The elephant lurking in the room has become unavoidable.

It does make me happy that the essay is for paid subscribers, because at least fewer people will read it.

Ha! Lucky you.

There. You’ve been warned.

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It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a depression.

I of course have gotten depressed from time to time. You cannot live in the United States without getting depressed from time to time. We are the richest nation in the world on a fast track to becoming the most miserable on the planet.

I am speaking about a true blast of major depressive disorder.

I can’t diagnose myself, because I am not a doctor. But I remember what this feels like. This is how I felt thirty years ago. This is something I wrangled for a time.

I have an appointment with a doctor tomorrow. I tell you not because it’s your business, but to reassure you, so you can say to yourselves,

She’s going to the doctor tomorrow, so they’ll help her, and this thing will go away. I don’t have to worry about her.

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May I suggest you don’t have to worry about me, ever. There is nothing I’d love more than the absence of your worry, whether or not I go to the doctor. I find worry unbearable.

This thing I have—you cannot fix it, and neither can I, and it is pointless to worry about it.

Plus I find your worry irritating. If you must worry, worry somewhere else. I do not have the energy to manage your anxiety about my depression.

That’s funny, but it’s also true.