It’s been no secret that I’ve been depressed.
I’ve stared at the blinking curser on a blank blog page, all Imma talk about it I don’t know how many times (at least twice), but realize that whatever I say will be all wah, wah, wah, bleeeerrrggg, because I’m not depressed about things that are entirely fixable with anything but time. I’ve done my best to keep my head up through the storms and keep one foot in front of the other – that is, when I’m not too busy falling over kitchen appliances and giving myself minor concussions – and keep on truckin’.
It’s the only thing I can do.
So instead of telling you my laundry list of things that have been depressing and/or heartbreaking, it’s time to take a gander at depression through the ages. That way, when I’m sad, I can stop being sad and start being awesome again.
Depression, Age 10: “Wahhhhhhh, I broke a lace on my new skates and now I have to wear these rental skates and NO ONE will want to slow-skate with me because I’m going to be all stinky-foot on their asses. These skates smell like at least three people vomited inside of them. How does that even happen? I need my mom to buy me a new pair of these kicky shoes – Chuck Taylor’s. That’ll help with this OMFG humiliation of skating in barf skates.”
Depression, Age 15: “Wah-Wah-Wah, I’ve just dumped this guy that I OMG loved so much with all my heart and I just knew we’d be together forever even though we only were “together” for a night or whatever, but he’s SUCH a good kisser and I’m SURE he’s my soulmate. I know we’ll work out*. In the meantime, I need some kicky motherfucking shoes. AND, I need my friend to pee in his mailbox. Clearly. Oh, if only I had a social network thing to quote very, VERY meaningful song lyrics and/or quotes that remind me of my lost looooovvvveee.”
Depression, Age 20: “Holy fuckstick, I got a baby in my belly and he’s all dancing on my bladder and shit and I have to pee two ounces every three seconds, and if he’d just lay off my liver, things would be okay again. Well, that and a simple, “Congrats!” from anyone – kinda sick of these angry looks. I’m twenty years old, not thirteen. I bet a new purse would do wonders to cover up my gigantic ass. Who the shit gets pregnant IN THEIR ASS?”
Depression, Age 25: “Ha! TAKE THAT! I proved those motherfuckers wrong – I raised that baby up, I got married and I graduated at the top of my nursing class. With the whirlwind I’ve been living in, I don’t see AT ALL how I didn’t notice that working as a floor nurse might just make me homicidal. Oh, and autism kinda sucks ass – I thought it would be better once I had real time to devote to the kid. Oh! I know what’ll help – ANOTHER BABY. So why can’t I get fucking pregnant?”
Depression, Age 30: “I got this. I may be miserable, but who the fuck wants to think about that shit? I can totally just push it on back there and be all, “MY LIFE RULEZ. It’s important that it has the “Z” in RULEZ, because obviously. No one needs to know how shitty things are, even IF I do have a social media network to whine on – who wants to read that? I bet a joke about squirrels in diapers would TOTALLY cheer me up. I should tweet that shit.”
Depression, Age 32: “Starting over again, huh? Not the way I thought it would be. I could put up some inspirational shit on my social media networks, but that might make me stab myself in the toe with a blunt fork. Who cares if “tomorrow is a new day” if today, like all the days before it, has sucked ballz. YES, ballz needs a “Z.” Why? Obviously. Being this whiny means I should probably shut my whore mouth until I’m able to say something awesome again. So that’s that – when I get sad now, I’m going to stop being sad and start being awesome.”
*he had a tiny wang – think pretzel rod, Pranksters – and we never did get back together. Thank the Good Lord of Butter. Bullet motherfucking DODGED.
(when you can’t find me here, you can find me here, which has some rad guest posts on it. Why? Because when I get sad, I stop being sad and start being awesome. Duh.)