How arrogant of me to think that they don’t know what they’re talking about?”

In rage and fear, I would then turn on Don, the kid who never talked to anyone and was always dirty, who wore the same clothes every day, and cruelly mock him, thinking I could transfer this awful feeling down the line. I am sorry, Don.

Three. Jumping would mean doing something. Doing something was not really my thing. I was more inclined to not do something. I specialized in stewing.

Boy, I spin thoughts around in my head a lot, don’t I? Like, a lot. That’s what depression does. The dance floor of your mind is never without a pounding beat, and usually the DJ is playing eight or nine songs at the same time.

Depression does its damage and then it hides, covering its tracks, making you think that it is not an illness, that you’re just bad and weird.

Only by being useful or talented, and receiving external recognition, would I achieve personhood. I couldn’t imagine a world where I was a worthwhile person by dint of mere existence; I felt like I needed to earn it and prove it every day.

I’m a straight white man. The last three words of the previous sentence give me three layers of support in this society. Toss in a college education and my status as married with kids, that’s a few more.

Depression can’t be cured by positive life circumstances because depression is not a reaction to circumstances.

No matter what, I have all the mechanisms of society in my favor to back me up. Even if someone has a bias against me for being a person with depression, I have plenty of other widely held biases that work in my favor, like racism, sexism, ableism, and homophobia. I abhor all those things but there’s no question that, through no effort of my own,