depression

By doin’ hard work

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Monday, October 20, 2025. 


It’s cold here tonight, in Maine.  We got the first real rain we’ve gotten since June today.  It was perfect napping weather.   Which explains my 2+ hour nap this afternoon.  

This is the first time I’ve written in at least four months.  It’s hard to be creative when you are depressed.  

Depressed you say?  Why should you be depressed?  

Well on June 19th, I was laid off from my job.  It was not a surprise.  Nor was I disappointed when it happened.  It had been kind of a shit show for a while, for various reasons.  

That being said, yesterday marked four months of being unemployed, and I’m still looking for a job.  The job market in Maine is just as soft as it is in the rest of the country.  The job market for restaurant jobs, is even softer.  It’s been a quiet summer for restaurants seeking management.  

I do have to say it’s been one of the best summers of my time in Maine.  When you work in hospitality in Maine in the summer, you do not socialize. You do not see your friends.  You work a million hours and then sleep when you can.  

I was at a gathering for a birthday for a friend about a month ago and someone said, I’m sorry you don’t have a job, but it’s been awesome seeing you this summer.  I’ve attended birthday parties.  4th of July parties.  Pool parties.  I’ve gone to plays.  I’ve had drinks with friends, I haven’t seen in years.  I’ve had dinner on Saturday nights at 7:00, on a patio in Portland.  It really has been nice to see all my friends more in the past four months than I have in years.  

That being said, the bank account is dwindling.  The need to find a job is ever present.  This underlying depression encompasses me every day.  

Find a job.  Find a job.  Find a job.  

I sometimes wonder if my age is working against me.  I’ve read half a dozen articles about entering the work force after 50 this summer.  I conveniently leave off the year I graduated from college.  Whoops a typo.  

Portland and its metro area is a small market.  There are a million jobs making 18 bucks an hour.   When you start to move up the food chain there are far less.  

I have been hesitant to write about this since it happened, because well it’s embarrassing to be unemployed.  It’s easier to hide in bed and pretend that everything is okay.  

Which it’s not.  

Adam has encouraged me to spend more time on my computer.  Looking for jobs.  Writing.  Not napping.  

So here I am.  

It’s so weird to be starting over.  Again.  At 60.  But that’s the cards I was dealt.  

Meanwhile, my amazing, and growing less patient, boyfriend is in the kitchen making us dinner.  I’m writing for the first time in 4 months.  

I’ll keep you posted as things move forward.  

Jeff at the Psychiatrist, a three-part mini opera

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.

Way back before the internet. Before cell phones. Almost before electricity.

I was an asshole.

A raging, giant, not forgettable asshole.

I can hear all of you who know me now saying, well that tracks.

Seriously, I was.

I was once fired by an assistant principal from a lighting gig because I told him to close the fucking door.

I’ll tell that story another day.

I once threw a watch at a boyfriend, and broke the glass in our French doors.

Another day.

I once ripped up a photograph of a boyfriend’s childhood home, because he pissed me off.

Another day.

I once threw a tray, with four ice tea glasses filled with ice tea, at a manager. (He deserved it).

Another day.

I once rudely told a classmate of mine that he was off key, making fun of his song, because you know, that’s who I was.

Another day.

I once called a cousin a backwoods country fuck.

Another day. (This one might have been warranted, but probably not).

I have a few stories that I’m just too embarrassed to share with you.

But don’t you worry, these stories keep me awake at night several times a year.

Sometimes, I even took pride in being an asshole. Telling actors what I thought of their performances. Telling co-workers how bad they were. Telling family members what I thought of them.

I’m sure there are people in my current life that would assure you that I have not changed.

They are probably a little right.

Truth be told, the one thing that changed for me. That led me away from a life of assholery.

Was being medicated.

April 20, 2001.

I know this, because I started a new journal on the morning after my first dose of the medicine.

The journal was specific. It was detailed. The days that followed, I wrote about the pain and suffering. But it also detailed the changes that followed after I started the medicine.

I bring all of this up, because last night, going through a box, I found said journal.

And I read through it.

I don’t recognize the person who wrote in the journal. Not at all.

The pain. The suffering. The longing to be better.

I don’t recognize the person, but I remember writing the posts.

I don’t remember the pain, but I remember writing about it.

It’s been almost 25 years since I started taking the meds.

I went off of them once in 2012, ruined Thanksgiving, and swore to Adam, I’d never do that again.

Another day.

As I read through the journal, I put it in the trash pile. Along with a bunch of other stuff.

Luckily, the trash was full, and I was too lazy to change it so I kept the whole pile. I put it back in my office.

Today, I decided not to throw the journal away, as there is a whole story there to tell.

When I started taking the medicine, I also started seeing my psychiatrist for the therapy. He didn’t take insurance. He had a fancy 5th Avenue office. And it was a whole bunch of money each month. And more than any money I’ve ever spent on cars, tuition, vacation, this money changed my life.

I didn’t stop being an asshole overnight. But slowly, over the years it waned. And I became a better person. And more than not being an asshole, I learned to like the person that I’d become. After close to 50 years of really kind of hating myself, I realized that there was good guy in there all along.

I sometimes think that the reason I survived my asshole years is because along the way I found people who could see me for who I wanted to be and not who I was currently being. People who never gave up on me. Who knew that I’d find my way.

I had a few who didn’t make it. They gave up. Walked away. Decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Looking back, I’m not sure I blame them, but for those that waited it out, I’m very thankful.

I’ve been lucky enough to let most of the people who stuck it out know how much I appreciate them. To others, there are amends to be made, eventually.

I tell people in my life now, that I don’t argue well. I listen to what’s being said, and I think about it. I’m great at responding in the shower 6 hours later.

It’s not that I don’t argue well. It’s just that if I say what comes to mind in the moment, I have to say I’m sorry later. So, I don’t speak. I shut down, to quote a few people. Listen to what the person is saying, then respond later. In a thoughtful, well-crafted way.

This can be frustrating to someone who is pushing for a response, but I prefer this to having to say I’m sorry later.

In the meantime, I take my medicine.

I think before I speak.

I breathe.

And the writing from the last three years has helped immensely. Should I share my deepest darkest secrets? I say absolutely.

The biggest gift I was ever given, was learning that I was not alone. That there are others who suffer from my diagnosis. There are people out there who are assholes that don’t want to be assholes. They want to be kind and giving and understanding.

So, I share my crap, so the friends I have on Facebook, and my friends who read my blog, will know that they’re not alone, and that there is hope.

I’ll end by saying, if you are struggling–seek help. Seek it everywhere. It might take a while for the right person to come along. I sought help for the first time in 1995. I didn’t find a solution until 2001. I saw a dozen therapists. At least four different psychiatrists. In fact, the doctor, who changed my life, was recommended by a guy I went out with three or four times.

He changed my life.

Keep looking. If you don’t connect. Try someone else. Try someone else. Someone else.

Just don’t give up.

The solution is out there.

If I could do it, then you can do it.

One man may seem incompetent, another not make sense, while others look like quite waste of company expense. They need a brother’s leadership, so, please don’t do them in. Remember mediocrity is not a mortal sin.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Management is hard.  

That’s what my friend Laura says to me, over and over and over.  

She was my first AGM when I became a manager!

She tells me often that management is hard.  

She is not wrong.  

I had the same conversation today with my front of house manager.  

I always thought the hard part would be knowing the job.  

How to do financials. 

How to manage labor.  

How to make sure the needs of the restaurant were met, like ordering trash bags, and paying the rent. 

Turns out that’s the easy part. 

The hard part is managing people.

The personalities.  

All different.  

Not unlike teaching.  

Who needs a hug? 

Who needs a scolding? 

Who needs to be sent home to breathe.  

Who needs a cheeseburger. 

Thinking back to ALLLLL of the manager’s I’ve had in my life, and it’s been a lot, there is a lot I’ve learned along the way.  

My first manager was a friend of my parents.

She fired me for being insubordinate.  

To her daughter.  

My next manager, chain smoked like a chimney.  Was about five feet tall.  Weighed about 80 pounds.  And was a firecracker.

She put up with no shit.  I followed her from the Georgetown Wendy’s to the North Park Wendy’s.  I stopped working for her when my car died and I could no longer get to Lexington.  

I always joke that when I got hired to be a restaurant GM, I sat down and said who do I want to be like. 

The name that came to mind was Mike Cook from Daryl’s restaurant in Lexington.  

Cookie.  

He was horrible

First question when you got to work was what kind of mood is Cookie in?  If he was in a bad mood, everyone was in a bad mood.  If he was in a good mood.  Everyone was in a good mood.  

He was one of the worst manager’s I ever had, because you never, ever knew who you were getting.   

And that I’ve spent the last 13 summers asking myself what would Cookie do, and then did the opposite. 

For all of my faults as a manager, the one thing that I don’t do is take out my personal mood out on my staff.  If I’m depressed?  If I’m mad about something?  I don’t yell at them.   I put a smile on my face and keep it to myself. 

Last summer, was the first time, I developed crack in my facade.

I had employees who could see the pain.  They helped as much as they could, but to no avail.  

In the past though I’ve had lots of good, and lots of bad manager.  

I’ve had managers who played with my schedule.  

I asked for 10 days off at the Hard Rock.  

The 10th day fell on the beginning of the next schedule.  

I went away on my trip, and didn’t show up for day 10 because why would I be scheduled.  

I was told I was being fired for a no call – no show.  

It took about 10 minutes in the GM’s office dropping the word harassment, and discrimination 17 times, for that decision to be reversed.  

The manager who played with my schedule was transferred about 6 weeks later because of me.  

While I’m on the subject of the Hard Rock, two of the best GM’s I ever worked with were there.  Great attitude.  Fair treatment.  Listened.  Cared.  Treated the staff like gold.  

Back to the subject.  

Managing is hard.  

Managing restaurants is especially hard.  

And it’s truly not for the feint of heart.  

I’ve learned a lot over the past 14 summers.  

Do I still fuck up?

Of course.

Back in 2014 I made a rule for myself.  

If I snap at an employee… 

I buy them a beer at the end of the shift.  

Not literally.

Because that would be illegal.

What I do, is take 20 dollars out of my pocket and give it the employee, to buy themselves a beer after work.  

And I ALWAYS apologize. 

ALWAYS

I usually only have a couple of occurrences a year.  

I won’t tag her in the post, but one of my favorite employees of my GM days, was a girl who hosted for me.  

We butted heads a lot. 

She gave her notice at the end of the third summer, in a letter to my boss.  

She gave him all the reasons that she hated me and that was the reason she was quitting.  

Fast forward six months, and she is working in a restaurant, in another state, and she texts me to say that she was sorry.  

She was wrong about me. 

After working in a restaurant, with actual bad management, she realized that I was quite fair in my expectations.  Was pretty clear in what I wanted.  

And wasn’t so bad after all. 

Since then, she has finished her degree, has two kids and I love watching her grow from 8 states away.    

She is not the only person to share the same sentiments with me.   

To end the story, she was the last customer I spoke to on October 29, 2017 the night before we all lost our jobs.  She was in town visiting and had come to the restaurant to see me.  She sat at seat 51 at the Front Bar and we chatted.  

She left.

I went home.  

The next day when I got to work, the locks were being changed and yellow envelopes were being handed out.

I was told, it’s just business.  

It’s not personal.  

But that’s another story.    

When our long night is done, there will be light. There will be light. There will be light.

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

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.

Can’t you feel a brand new day…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’m fucking starving. 

Starving I tell you.  

And this is a very good thing.  

My lost post, if anyone is paying attention ,was on March 1.  

The following week was busy, as I had a new manager start at work.  

I was with her almost every minute of the day, and included working longer days than I had been.

By the end of that weekend, I was beat.  

I woke up on Monday, March 12, feeling like shit.  

It was as though I’d been hit by a truck.  

I was tired.  Cranky.  Felt out of it.  

And for almost two days, I was convinced I was getting sick.  

On Thursday, I had a realization.  

I wasn’t sick.  I wasn’t getting sick.

I was depressed.  

Talk about being insightful. 

Seriously.  

I was sitting at my desk at work, not getting nearly as much accomplished as I needed, when I realized that what I was feeling was exactly how I felt when my mom died.  

It didn’t make me feel better.  

But suddenly I knew how to start making it better.  

For me that first step was talking about it.  

When I got home from work that night, Adam asked how I was feeling, and I told him what was up.  He was very supportive and understanding.  

He asked how to help, and I told him he’d already helped, just by listening and understanding.  

The next day at work, I shared this with two of my co-workers.  I needed them to understand that I wasn’t sick, and I wasn’t wasting time.  I just couldn’t focus.  

In a perfect world, I’d have taken a sick day, but alas, that’s not where we live.  

On Tuesday, I took the day off.  And I slept.  And slept.  And slept.  

I got up at 4:30.  

And I felt much better. 

I didn’t get any of my errands done, but I felt good.  

And it was finally all gone yesterday.  It was as if the clouds had clear and there was sunshine.  

I was able to be hyper-focused, and get so much done at work.  

I was making lists, and crossing things off and felt like a normal person.  

And today, this is all confirmed as I have my appetite back.  For the last week, I’ve eaten but I don’t know that I’ve been super hungry.  Today I am famished.  I’m fucking starving. 

When I’m feeling depressed, I tend to isolate.  

I also, tend to lose interest in most of the things I do for fun, like writing.  

It’s hard to focus.  And if I can focus, it’s hard to stay focused.  

But today I am feeling better.

Funny story though…

A couple of days ago a memory popped up on Facebook.  It was a blog post from a year ago.  

Here’s a link to said story:  https://id-like-to-speak-to-the-manager.com/2023/03/16/my-time-of-day/

It’s basically said that a year ago I was feeling the same way.  Went to the doctor etc.  

And my conclusion is:  Perhaps I’m adverse to the spring time change.  

It wouldn’t be out of the question?  And it might explain a thing or two.  

And there is no reason for me to be depressed.  Nothing in my life has changed and if it has, it’s been for the better.  

So.  

I was depressed.  I’m not any more.  

Perhaps I hate Daylight Saving Time after all.  

The end.