The Shape of Days

The thing about depression is that it sometimes takes on unusual and unexpected forms.

Wait. Go back. Let’s get something straight from the outset: depression isn’t a state of being. “I’m depressed” isn’t a meaningful sentence. Depression is an affliction, a burden. It’s something you carry, something you have. Not something you are. Got it? It’s something you have, not something you are.

(Repeat ad pacem.)

Anyway, here’s the thing about depression: it sometimes takes on unusual and unexpected forms.

Today, for instance, I can’t tolerate the idea of listening to a CD or watching a video. Listening to the radio or watching TV are okay, though. Why? Because—and this is the part where the perversion of depression sets in—if I’m listening to a CD or watching a video, I’m doing it alone. Irrevocably and indisputably alone. Whereas if I’m listening to the radio, or watching television, there might be somebody out there who’s listening to the same thing I’m listening to, or watching the same thing I’m watching. There might be somebody out there who’s feeling what I’m feeling. And that possibility, alone, is enough to stave off the crushing emotional pain.

Depression is a funny thing.

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