I was once asked by a healthcare professional if I’d ever had suicidal thoughts. At the time I thought it was a standard question (I don’t really have a lot of experience with doctor types – other than the ones I’ve encountered in my work experience, who mostly haven’t paid much attention to me, except, maybe, to tell me how important they are). But I was forced to get an exam for some reason or other (work-related, I think) and it may be that I was just doing a poor job of hiding my disgust at being in this guy’s presence (once you find out what they really think of the general public, it’s hard to pretend to believe they actually give a shit about – let alone respect – you), and he mistook my disdain for despair.
I mean, my mother once told me I looked “mean” (thanks Ma!), and my wife told me I look like a Klingon (hopefully a “Next Generation” version). I even had my ninth grade English teacher tell me one time that she didn’t like having me in her class, because she’d look at me sitting there and know I was thinking “this is bullshit.” A bit of projection on her part, I think, but I assured her that she ought not to worry because I was rarely, if ever, actually paying attention to whatever it was she was saying.
So perhaps I had a bit of a pissy look on my face. I dunno.
Anyhow, my response to the whole thinking about offing myself thing was, “yeah, I suppose everybody has thoughts like that from time to time.” So naturally the follow-up question was “do you often feel depressed?”
Well, shit. First you have to define “often” and then you’ll have to tell me what you mean by “depressed.” Sad, sure. Who isn’t, apart from narcissists and sociopaths. I’m no shrink, but I doubt any state of malaise I’ve ever experienced has risen to the level of clinical depression. I once heard a now-disgraced podcaster talk about having anxiety attacks and saying that people think they get those, but they don’t really know what that is until they actually have one. Which made me wonder, if that’s the case, how you’d ever know you actually had one. I guess it’s like porn – you know it when you see (or feel) it.
But the point is, yeah, I’ve felt shitty and unhappy and all that, but nothing out of what I assume is the ordinary (I mean, it kind of depends on your situation, no? And whether or not you ran out of beer and cigarettes and the stores are all closed – yeah, there once was a time when the stores closed and teevee stations actually “signed off” for the night).
Anyway, any suicidal thoughts I might have had were certainly never serious (I mean, here I still am, right?), and, in any case, not as a result of depression. More like laziness. As in, there were things I really didn’t want to do (write a paper, take a test, go to work, give a presentation, go to a fucking doctor appointment, etc.), and never being particularly bright or creative, the only way I could think to get out of doing them would be to wake up dead. Or maybe get in a serious (but non-fatal) automobile accident. Preferably something involving a relatively brief coma that would allow me to catch up on my sleep and not have to experience any pain (had an MVA resulting in a compression fracture of the T10 vertebrae one time and let me tell ya, that shit hurt. A lot. Still does, frankly – it’s something I highly recommend you avoid).
Oh, and no catheter, please, because the thought of the thought of those things frankly creeps me out.
Now that I’m older, the car accident fantasy has been replaced by something a little more age appropriate – like, maybe, an acute cardiac infarction. Mild stroke. Something relatively benign, yet necessitating early retirement at full pay (and a prescription for medical marijuana – and not that NYS crap, either, but the real thing). Hey, a guy can dream, no?
Which leads me to where I am today. I mean, not today, specifically, but today as in at this point in my life. For reasons I won’t get into, I’m really not digging the way life is working out right now. I mean, besides obvious things like a POTUS who is a Russian asset, a bunch of “liberals” who seem intent on eating each other because this one doesn’t like that one, and that other one was mean to the one whose turn it was last time, and some billionaire asshole who seems intent on making sure the current fake billionaire asshole stays in office.
On a side note, I see that our beloved (yet terribly harassed, which has never happened to any other president) Commander in Chief keeps referring to the Amazon and WaPost dude as Jeff Bozo. I get that’s a pretty easy “joke” to make with the “b” and the “z” and the “o” and all, but someone who wears harlequin makeup and a fright wig really shouldn’t be making clown references.
Anyhow, my angst these days is pretty much all work related. I’m feeling overwhelmed and stressed and hopelessly trapped and just plain unhappy. I haven’t really slept much in a couple of years (despite what my watch seems to think – apparently when you just lie there staring into the darkness, it considers it “light sleep”), I have a more or less perpetual headache, my jaw hurts like hell from constantly clenching my teeth, and I have to piss all the time.
That last part isn’t really related to stress – it’s just annoying.
So, here I am, too young to die (or at least too young to give up just yet), too poor to retire, can’t drink beer, pot’s not legal (yet, at least) here in NY, the few parts of me that don’t hurt are numb because I slept on them funny, it’s only the beginning of February and I’ve been sick of winter since before Xmas, the basketball team is having a shitty season, the lacrosse team opened up with a loss to fucking Colgate, for fuck’s sake, and Trump’s still president. If I wasn’t at least a little depressed, I’d need to have my head examined.
And, yeah, I’m aware that I’m being just a wee bit melodramatic here (I get that from my mother), and obviously know that I’ve been more than fortunate in my life and I really have no right to complain.
But fuck that.
Up until a week or so ago, I’d been harboring this fantasy that I could retire at any point. I mean, I’ve got enough years in to collect a pension and while I know that I’ll take a hit because of my age (never thought there’d be a drawback to being “too young” – especially since it never occurred to me that I’d ever get this old in the first place), but I thought, you know, give up my addiction to Amazon, cut back on things here and there, and I could tough it out until Social Security kicks in (assuming the Republicans don’t fuck that all up). In fact, I was pretty much convinced I was ready to pull the pin, walk in to HR, fill out the paperwork, and close out this chapter of my life. I mean, what’s the point if you’re just gonna feel like shit all the time?
But then I sat down and looked things over realistically and, well, even if I eat the dogs, sell the truck and walk wherever I go, revert to dial-up Internet (do they even have that anymore?), fill in the pool (which I would love to do – I mean, a pool where there’s nine months of winter? Whose bright idea was that?), and give up my phone (which, really, won’t do me much good without Internet anyway, seeing as nobody ever calls me and I’ve hated telephones since I got the call in the middle of the night that my dad had died), there’s still no chance of me retiring. Zero. Zip. As John Lennon once sang, the dream is over.
If I wasn’t depressed before that, I sure as hell am now.
But I’m a guy, and while I am (under certain circumstances) allowed to have feelings, I’m most definitely not allowed to express them.
So, never mind.
