Depression is an illness that happened to you. Maybe it was from the chemicals and inherited genetic traits that appeared in your brain before you were even born. Maybe it was from a trauma that occurred and then festered in your brain. Maybe there were people with power over you who behaved in a way that screwed you up. It wasn’t you. You didn’t

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.

The saddies attach little or no sense of intrinsic value to their person, so accomplishment automatically feels fraudulent.

I had spent years exhorting people to get help and to believe that they could get better while never believing that about myself.

A depressed mind is pretty adept at buying into a distorted reality.

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.

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.

I’ve managed to stop getting worse. I want to be better.”

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.