Depressing, Not Depressed
A (not so) obvious epiphany
My assignment at work this week was to write about a ketamine-abusing antisemitic megalomaniacal billionaire who believes the world is likely a simulation and everyone, except for him, is a non-playable character who can be bent to his will, or deleted at his pleasure. I would’ve paid real money to write about another topic, but since I’m paid real money to write on the topics that are assigned, I rolled up my sleeves and did the damn thing. This time last year, however, I would’ve demanded hazard pay, or let’s be honest, crawled into bed and hidden from a reality that’s just too depressing to contemplate.
Aside from a very brief period when I practiced law, my entire career has been in media. I’ve been a journalist, and I’ve worked in public relations, where you mostly encounter former journalists who A) were downsized, B) wanted to make more money, or C) both. I enjoy my work. It suits me, as I like writing, and talking to people, and learning new stuff, and explaining that stuff to people.
Media is a vast industry. If it exists, there’s likely someone, somewhere covering it. But the thing that unites media people is this: Knowing what’s going on — or trying like hell to figure out what’s going on — is our job. Information is the coin of the realm.
About fifteen years ago, for reasons that remain unclear to this day, media people decided that the future was a digital co-working space called Twitter. Regular people used Twitter to make dumb jokes, share pictures of what they ate for lunch, and complain about television shows they just couldn’t stop watching. Media people used Twitter to do the same things, but we called our posts “work.” For a time — and I’m not exaggerating here — it was impossible to be a media person without being on Twitter.
At first, Twitter was fun and weird, then it was weird and not fun, then it was blood-boiling, brain-breaking, and soul-crushing. At some point, going on Twitter felt like guzzling nihilism from a firehose of doom, while billions of mosquitos ate you alive.
I cut way back on Twitter when a fake billionaire became its Orwellian main character. Then, when a real billionaire bought the platform so people would laugh at his dumb jokes, I deleted my account. Quitting Twitter made it more difficult to do my job and, perhaps, hurt my career. But I left because I found Twitter depressing. Or, as I would’ve told you then, “Twitter makes me depressed.”
I recently explained all of this to my therapist, but I added a new wrinkle. Twitter, I explained, isn’t as relevant as it once was, but our information ecosystem, aka my workspace, had experienced Twitterification. My concern was that simply doing my job exposed me to a thing I believed to be the cause of my depression. Kind of like a coal miner, only instead of black lung, I suffer from dark moods.
A word about depression. I’m an expert on the subject only insofar as I’ve lived with it most of my life, but I’m not a mental health professional. People have told me depression is chemical, that it’s rooted in our lived experience, that it’s caused by the food we eat, or not exercising enough, or not believing in god, or listening to Morrissey. The truth? I have no fucking idea what causes depression. What I do know is that I strongly associate my depression with doomscrolling bad news. In fact, most of my life I would’ve told you my media diet was the key to managing my depression.
A year ago, my depression got so bad I had no choice but to face it. I began taking medication, I started therapy, and I got serious about my yoga practice. Those are working! I also started a new job last year — something I don’t believe would’ve been possible without first addressing my mental health. But in the waning days of 2024, I saw that my new job was on a collision course with a Twitterfied information ecosystem, and I began to fear that I’d slip back into a deep, dark hole, as I assumed that consuming depressing news would make me depressed.
I was wrong about that.
Drugs, therapy, and yoga had made me stronger and more resilient. Just as important, I clawed my way out of the darkness, and in the process, proved to myself, for the first time, that I could beat my depression. When I began that journey, I did not know what it felt like to be on the other side of depression, and so I had no understanding of my destination; honestly, I wasn’t even sure if a place called Life Without Depression was real. Truth: it is.
And here I am. The collision I most feared happened this week. I drank nihilism from the firehose of doom, while billions of mosquitos ate me alive. My blood boiled, my brain broke, my soul was crushed. It was depressing, but I am not depressed.
Which brings me to an epiphany that might be obvious to you, but wasn’t obvious to me.
Ready?
There is a difference between depressing and depressed.
As epiphanies go, this one isn’t Earth-shattering. It’s not Archimedes in the pool, or Newton under an apple tree. It’s just a simple lesson that took me forty-seven years to learn.
I’m sharing this lesson for two reasons. First, I believe that if I write it down, I’m more likely to remember it. Second, this lesson might help someone.
These are depressing times, but that’s not the same thing as being depressed.
Goat Yoga Is A Go!
Time for some good news. The situation normie community stepped up big time to make the goat yoga story happen. Next steps: booking a class, doing some ace-level reportage, and bringing that story to you. Stay tuned.
In the meantime, a big goat yoga thank you to
, , Kevin Davis, , Margaret Frisinger, Monica Piasecki, and !Shout out!
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Stick Around and Chat!
I ask, maybe you answer
What television shows do you want to complain about?
What’s the most recent meal you took a photo of? Did you share it on social media? Why?
Nihilism? Explain.
Depressed or depressing? No wrong answers here.
Got an epiphany you want to share?
Great post, Michael. Wonderful to read your story and how you have been able to manage your depression.
To help me cope with these depressing times, I steal a quote that the British Columbia Provincial Health Officer ended her pandemic press conferences with: “It’s not forever but it is for now. Be kind. Be calm. Be safe.”
It’s a mantra I repeat to myself when I can’t sleep and when the news hits, hurts, and frightens me.
I’m repeating it a lot recently.
I’m clinically depressed, passed down from my parents. 17 therapists due to moving frequently as a Navy wife. Plus, it’s hard to find a good therapist.
So, I’m still depressed, but less due to therapy, meds and TMS(new version of electric shock). But, life is so depressing right now. During his first presidency I had an emotional breakdown down leaving me in bed for 17 months.
This time I’m not in bed. I’m trying to fight, trying not to flee the country leaving my three children and 7 grandchildren. I make my choices for me now. I believe I am stronger, but it’s still depressing.