I’d really, really, really like to speak to the manager!!!

Actually.

I NEED to speak to the manager!!!

Hi.

It’s Jeff.

Remember me.

I’ll get straight to the point.

I miss writing.

I miss it a lot.

I literally write down 6 or 7 ideas in my Notes app every day.

But here’s the thing.

I haven’t been writing.

One post in a month.

And here’s why.

Back when the time the changed my depression kicked in.

I was reminded by Facebook, my blog, and my friends that this is a yearly occurrence.

Only this year it’s not lifting.

For the past month I’ve felt like I was moving in a fog.

Like I’m underwater, swimming, upstream, against a current that is about to go over a falls.

Most days have been like this.

Most people don’t know.

Most days Adam doesn’t know.

That being said, there have been weeks that have been very dark.

Like I’m already over the falls.

And again.

No one knew.

I went to work. I did my job. I was friendly. I was funny. I was outgoing. I led meetings. I solved problems. I made lists. I crossed things off my list.

No one knew.

I came home.

I scooped the litter boxes. I did the dishes. I folded the laundry. I cleaned my office. I sorted the mail. I went to the dump. I took the cans to the redemption center.

No one knew.

And I’d go to bed.

And I’d lie awake, wondering what the point of it all was.

Is.

Here’s the thing.

I’ve dealt with depression my whole life.

Well, since puberty. It really started when I hit 13 or 14. We moved from the neighborhood I grew up in. To a house where the nearest neighbor was not close. Then we moved again, this time to a small, small town, where I was called a f*g on the bus every day for two years till I got my driver’s license.

At this time, my relationship with my parents sucked, for absolutely no reason at all, other than I was not quite what they wanted in a son. I read. I didn’t miss school. I got good grades. I was really a text book pretty decent kid. Not what they wanted.

And the depression started.

And I learned to hide it.

I hid it through high school.

I hit it in college.

I hid it in Atlanta, Kansas City, Cincinnati.

And I continued to hide I couldn’t.

And then it came pouring out, like someone had run over a hydrant.

And for the next few years life pretty much sucked ass.

And very few people knew it.

In 1998, I moved to NYC.

And in the fall of 1999, I was at Marie’s Crisis, a piano bar, singing show tunes. And a cute boy named Mike, caught my eye across the room. The chorus sang out, Suddenly Seymour, as I made my way across the room to introduce myself. I did things like that back then.

And I ended up going home with him.

And we dated for about 6 minutes. Not months. Minutes. I think we went on three dates. Long enough to learn that he made a 110,000 year, he was in marketing and his partner of three years had just died of AIDS.

He was depressed.

I was depressed.

We agreed we were too depressed to date each other.

And one night we chatted about our depression and he suggested I go to his psychiatrist.

Mike and I stayed friends until I left NYC. In fact, I had a fabulous trip to Europe with him and a couple of his other friends in the spring of 2001.

I ended up making an appointment with Mike’s doctor.

And on my third appointment he wrote me a prescription.

He warned me not to go home and read about the medicine on the internet, as the medicine was usually for schizophrenics. I am not schizophrenic.

At this point I didn’t care. I was desperate for help.

I went home.

Took the medicine.

And woke up the next day a new man.

Seriously.

It was that fast.

It didn’t fix the problems, but the depression lifted.

I felt human.

I continued to see this doctor until I left NYC for therapy and drugs. He didn’t take insurance. Had a fifth avenue office, and my weekly visits cost more than my rent.

But I wasn’t depressed.

You hear of people selling their bodies for drugs. I would have sold my body for these drugs.

I was on a cocktail of three little pills that changed my life.

When I left NYC, I had a recommendation for a doctor in Maine. I saw him until he retired 8 years ago. At one visit he essentially told me I was cured. My visits were always the same.

Life is good. Life with Adam is good. My job is good. My home life is good. The cats are good.

Month after month after month after month.

The same.

Until my mom died.

I held it together for the cancer. And the funeral. And the clearing of the house.

And about four months later, it got dark.

I went to a new doctor and they said, relax, you are normal. This is called grief. Give it time.

And I did.

And it lifted.

And now for what is 24 years, I’ve been on the same cocktail of drugs.

Three little pills kept me normal.

Until March of this year.

The time changed and I changed.

And I got depressed.

And it has not lifted.

I’m in a fog.

I’m swimming.

Well actually sometimes it feels more like drowning than swimming.

And no one knows.

And I wouldn’t be writing this at all, except, Adam went to bed early and I’ve had a cocktail, and the fog is there, but I kept myself busy tonight and it’s the best I’ve felt in a bit.

But still there’s fog.

Still, I’m underwater.

I learned a lot in therapy in NYC.

I learned that the depression always lifts.

And that’s always been true.

This year is starting to feel a bit different.

I also learned that to talk about it takes the magic out of it.

No one knows.

No one knows.

No one knows.

Until you tell them.

So, I’ve told a few people.

And now I’m telling you.

I need to find a way out of this.

Tonight, a friend told me I needed a hobby. So instead of driving around after work, which I’m wont to do, I came home and started scanning. There’s more to come from where those came from.

I’m on vacation starting Monday. But for the first time in a bit, I’m not excited about it.

We are going to NYC to see an amazing array of shows, but I feel like it’s going to work. I’m hoping that once we are in the car headed south, that the sun will start to shine.

And the fog will lift.

Until then.

I need to talk about it.

So, I’m telling you.

And you know what.

As a white, American, man in his late 50’s it’s hard to ask for help.

We are taught that asking for help is a sign of weakness.

That only weak sissy men ask for help.

I’m not a weak sissy man…

But…

I need some help.

I wish I could tell you what that looked like.

But I can’t.

But if you could send some good thoughts my way, until this bullshit lifts I’d appreciate it.

Edit: I just posted this and the thing is there is no reason for the depression. Adam and I are fine. I have a job I really like. Our home is great. The cats are great. There is NO reason to feel the way I do. Which is the reason it sucks. I can get behind depression when someone dies, or dumps you, or fires you. But this. NO BUENO.