Depression Is My Superpower
Recently, I tried to watch The Last of Us, the exciting HBO show that had everyone raving a few months ago. Like a goddamn American hero, I powered through three whole horrific episodes before I gave up. The show wasn’t for me for a couple of reasons.
First off? Wayyyyyyy too scary. Call me a softie, but I find it unpleasant to have weird, undead creatures with cauliflower faces and seaweed crawling out of their throats jumping out at me. I’m quirky like that. And if you are way into such horrific things, I quite frankly think you’re a weirdo and will not be joining you for brunch this weekend, thank you very much.
But more importantly, I had the same problem with The Last of Us that I have with all post-apocalyptic fiction. I can’t get over one simple question: why are these people trying so hard to survive? The world is a zombie-infested hellhole. You want to keep living? What’s with all the effort, broseph? My real life is a metaphorical barcalounger of comfort snacks and post jerk-off naps and I can barely muster enough enthusiasm to check my email. You’re running from zombies? I get winded running a Zoom meeting. From this and other historical reactions to things, I have come to one inevitable conclusion:
I don’t have a particularly strong will to live.
Don’t get me wrong - I don’t want to die. I actually love my life and in many ways have never been happier. But any imaginary or real situation in which my life is in perceived danger, I tend to respond with a barely perceptible “meh.” Once, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking there was a murderer standing over me. It turned out it was a Fonzie jacket-Star Wars helmet combo hanging on the back of my door because I’m a giant child. But in that sleep-muddled moment, I genuinely thought my life was in danger. I reacted with a meager “Who’s there?” Then, I waited a moment, shrugged, and went back to sleep. I remember actually thinking “Whatever. Do your worst” before I went back to sleep, presumably to dream about being a Thundercat. The idea of putting in a lot of effort to fight for my life just seems so… not worth it.
Some of the more astute readers may be saying “Hey, Brendan - that sounds an awful lot like depression!” And you’d be right, of course. Depression started rearing its unpleasant head for me as a child. I remember my mother actually sending a note into my grade school teacher reading “Please be patient with Brendan today. He has the blues.” Back then, children weren’t really diagnosed with mental health disorders unless they were trying to guillotine themselves with a paper cutter. Looking back, I think it was a really sweet way of my mother trying to protect me without hitting the panic button. Because I was mostly a happy child. The depression would just sprinkle itself on me a little every now and then, like so much powdered sugar on my chubby donut of a face.
As I stumbled into adolescence, my depression stopped its coy flirting with me. It advanced to full-on raw-dog fisting my brain. My most charming traits during this time were anger and more anger. Fun fact: depression isn’t just sadness and lack of motivation. Irritability can be a major symptom, particularly for males. And I was one angry Thundercat. I wasn’t really sure why. My life was the very definition of privilege. I had an amazing, loving family. I found school very easy academically and was witty and funny enough to be able to fool people into being friends with me. But there was a raw, negative burning at my core. I still can’t put my finger on it, but my primary thought was “Everything sucks and nothing matters.” And it pissed me off. I didn’t understand why everyone around me was enjoying their lives like a bunch of naive idiots. I was jealous of them and hated them.
In my college years into my twenties, things got progressively worse. Again, I wasn’t the “stay in bed all day” type of depressed. I was very active and by all standards lived a full life. I wrote screenplays and songs. I went to parties and rock shows. I found comfort in circles of friends, mostly fellow depressed musicians and nerds (shoutout to my depressed musicians and nerds! Yas queens!) But even though people mostly couldn’t see it from my seemingly funny and charming persona, there was that core of unhappiness that just smoldered inside me. Mostly, it played out in two areas: romantic relationships and career pursuits.
First, I just couldn’t figure out how to get women to like me… and I was pissed about it. Sounds sexy, huh ladies? Here was the pattern: get close to someone I’m attracted to. Have deep conversations with them, usually about their piece of shit boyfriend who is totally not good enough for them because they are amaaaazing. Support them through all their difficult times (I was really good at this part). Confess my undying love in some intense over-the-top way, sometimes involving an original song with a hell of a hooky chorus if I do say so myself. Get sad/mad when they reject me but still want to be friends but not really hang out as much. Withdraw to my Fatcave and assume I’ll be alone forever because I’m fundamentally not attractive so why bother? Lather, rinse, repeat, eat tacos.
Career wise, it was just a different flavor of the same Failure Fanta™. I have always wanted to do something creative, whether it was comedy or film or music or whatever. I even moved to LA on a whim in my mid-twenties with a few screenplays under my belt. But when it came to putting myself out there to network, apply for jobs, introduce myself to people, I just… didn’t. There was no good reason for my avoidance. I was very skilled socially (although in hindsight, my “get a laugh at any cost” mantra may have been a little self-destructive). My thought habits were a baffling combination of “I’m too good for this” and “I suck so why bother?” which left me completely crippled in terms of risk taking. After a year of nothing happening, I returned to Boston because “LA sucks.”
Back in my safe womb of Boston, things predictably didn’t get any better. I was quickly approaching 30 with no significant romantic relationships or career prospects on the horizon. I was working an admin job that I hated at a university, getting in unnecessary conflicts about meaningless office politics shit, and generally being an unpleasant person to be around. The volcano of negativity was growing inside me. It was wearing me out. And one day, something in me just snapped. I was pining away for the woman in the cubicle next to me (you guessed it - a platonic friendship!) and then I got a phone call from my dad - who was in the early stages of dementia - asking me to figure out something with his computer. I’m not sure what it was about that combination of minor stressors, but my brain just… went away. I was sitting there in my cubicle, simply lost. A fog of confusion swept into my brain. Later, I learned that I had experienced an episode of dissociation. But I just looked around - the familiar surroundings were no longer familiar. I just… didn’t know what to do next. It hadn’t happened to me before or since, but it was incredibly weird and scary.
Luckily, my friend Beau noticed something was off. Quickly, he got me into my boss Jo Ann who got me an immediate appointment with the university counselor. I cannot overstate how much that act of kindness affected the trajectory of my life. I look back at that moment as the beginning of my new life. I got into therapy. And it changed everything.
If you haven’t done therapy, it’s probably different than you think it is. Mostly, I identified what my irrational automatic thoughts were (for example: “I’m fundamentally unattractive”) and replaced them with more reasonable thoughts (i.e. “Some people will be attracted to me and others won’t.”) Seems simple enough, but remember that I was working against decades of self-defeating thought habits. It was hard work. But I figured out the big piece: I was creating my own misery. I had my reasons. It served me in some ways - by being miserable all the time, I didn’t have to take risks. In its own way, my depression was trying to keep me safe. But it’s time had passed. I got on anti-depressants (pharmaceuticals! Life is beautiful!) and started developing more productive thought habits. I felt a LOT better and life got much more pleasant. But here’s the surprising, and ultimately most important part:
The depression didn’t ‘go away.’
I assumed that when I got my depression under control, I’d stop having the “I hate everything” and “I want to die” thoughts popping into my head. Noooooooope. That’s not how it works. The thoughts don’t stop happening. They just get less important. Now, when “I wish I was dead” pops into my head (which still happens several times a day), my reaction is just “Oh, that’s just the depression talking. I need a snack or a nap or to go for a walk.” You don’t stop wanting to die. Wanting to die just becomes not that big a deal. It’s just a random thought that pops into your head like any other silly urge you get throughout the day. It doesn’t mean anything. You don’t have to pay much attention to it. This sounds weird to someone who hasn’t experienced this, but for those of us with consistent low level depression, not having to pay attention to this negative voice anymore is incredibly liberating.
With years of practice, I took it even a step further: I turned my depression into a strength. Because for whatever chemical or biological or cultural reason, at my core I just don’t have a strong stake in the outcome of what happens to me. Because to me, ultimately nothing matters. And that is wonderful. I used to think “nothing matters, so why bother?” Now my brain says “‘nothing matters, so I can do anything! I’m free!” I don’t really care that much what happens to me. So why not go for broke in pursuit of happiness? Why not be the kind of person you want to be in the world? Why the fuck not?
So against all odds, depression truly has become my superpower.
Depression has freed me from holding on to anything too tightly. I can live exactly the life I want to live because who cares? It is glorious. Honestly, I feel a little bad for people with a strong will to live. It seems like such a burden. I’m not judging or anything. Enjoy your whole “staying alive” and “running from the zombies” thing. Chumps.
Boogie Writes is a completely independent endeavor by one hard-working funnyman trying to make his way in the world today (which takes everything you’ve got.) If you like what you read, please subscribe, support, and tell a friend! Also - do you need advice? Of course you do! Send your queries to brendan@brendanboogie.com with “Dear Boogie” in the subject and get some solid or at least passable advice!