Smiling Through.

I read these great pieces about depression from Dick Cavett who blogs on the NYT website. You probably don’t know who Dick Cavett if you’re in the same age bracket as me and in all fairness, I really didn’t either until I read a Snopes article about someone dying on his show and subsequently googled him. He’s sort of a big deal.

His blogs about depression obviously hit home with me. I probably write about depression and anxiety more than any other topic (though I steadfastly refuse to make a label specifically for it because that would be acknowledgement and I’m fine with my little piece of avoidance pie, thanksverymuch).

In so many ways depression is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. My longest relationship is two years and I’ve been dealing with my depression for six. So I’ve been depressed three times as much as I’ve ever been in love or at least coupled. It feels so bizarre and tedious to make these distinctions but the reach of my depression (which has no quirky nickname unfortunately) is so vast that I really can’t think about anything without mentioning how The Depression fits into that.

Mr. Cavett writes about the kinds of questions people ask once they find out a person is depressed. He writes,

“…Do not ask the victim what he has “to be depressed about.” The malady doesn’t care if you’re broke and alone or successful and surrounded by a loving family. It does its democratic dirty work to your brain chemistry regardless…”

Hardly anyone has ever asked me what I have “to be depressed about.” But they don’t ask me because I don’t mention it. I remember a boyfriend saying to me after we broke up that he thought I was sad too much and when I said that I was clinically depressed he insisted that I was being melodramatic. It was at that moment that I realized I didn’t really care if anyone knew. My best friend doesn’t know, my most recent ex-boyfriend doesn’t know and I doubt my next one will. People have bizarre opinions about mental health and how one should cure it. As if you, or anyone, saying that I should do this or that is going to change the chemical make-up of my brain. It’s amazing how self-righteous people can feel about someone else’s mental health.

Dick writes very cavalierly about his own depression and even speaks about it publicly which just blows my mind. Blogging semi-anonymously about it is one thing but standing in front of a crowd of people and trying to explain the darkest part of your soul? No thanks, that’s where I get off the pro-mental health bandwagon.

Mr. Cavett is one stunningly impressive old guy and I truly mean that in the best way possible. He has stories that are so real, so human that it’s easy to forget he’s a pretty important cultural icon. But that’s how I prefer my celebrities. I’d rather read about them dealing with a fat ass and fucked up brain than see pictures of them topless sunbathing in a country I’ve never heard of.

I can't be the only one.

This weekend was five parts awesome and ninety-five parts maybe I shouldn’t be doing this!

On Saturday I went to the wig party way up in the mountains. You guys, it was gorgeous and I’m a big fan of the city, I love the feel of concrete and the sounds of trains rushing by but when I was lying in a pool chair mostly drunk and full of BBQ I saw a condor soar over a mountain top and thought, HUH that’s neat.

There was a shot block. Have you ever seen one of these?

If you ever do? RUN. This thing is so fun and so ridiculous that you’ll have taken fourteen shots before anyone can even make one single Star Wars joke. Although, this wasn’t really the kind of crowd that makes Star Wars jokes. They were the tattooed, truck-driving, hick crowd. Which is totally fine by me because I was slurping tequila out of a FROZEN LUGE.

I was having so much fun dancing, singing karaoke and flirting with boys. At around ten, The Mayan ditched me in favor of taking herself back to town and that’s when the shit really started going down. There was a girl named Jenny there who kept taking pictures of us and saying how pretty I am and ohmygodsogoingtoputthoseonmyspace. Except? She didn’t give me her myspace address so out there in the interwebs are a bunch of sloppy pictures of me and her eating cupcakes.

And then a boy kissed me. A cute boy who was a good kisser. Except? Afterwards he informed me that he was married and I wanted to puke! The first boy to kiss me in months and he’s a fucking creep. Just. My. Luck. He was drunk so it hardly counts but still I totally wanted to punch him in the nuts.

Then I laid down on a pool chair and fell asleep with a Thomas the Train blanket! It was 3am! I needed mah beautification rest.

Today everyone has been coming up to me going, “Did you have a good time, huh huh huh?” And then giving me a funny look so I think perhaps I was a little more wild than I remember.

Next time I want to go to a party with my coworkers? PLZ STOP ME, INTERNETS.