Why This is a Bad Idea

A blog about depression! What a wonderful idea! And immediately I feel the emotional kickback that accompanies any kind of constructive thought. A wave of despondency surges over me. I feel a pre-taste of the failure and despair that I know must inevitably come. Self-mockery cuts in like some automated machine gun, laying down a withering fire to punish me for any sign of optimism or self-confidence, and the shame that follows any thoughts of prideful effort -- like how dare I even have the effrontery to think I could do something like a blog? --rises godzilla- like from the sea.

Anytime I have a positive thought--any time, whether it involves starting a new novel or just going to the store to get stuff for dinner--I can count on a mental backlash like this. Everything is accompanied by pain; everything is an effort, a struggle against my own hands pulling me down. That's depression.
But this time I persist.

A blog about depression. Well of course, there's probably thousands of them. Who's going to read one more...?

But no, that's not the point, I remind myself. The point is to just do it. The point is to give myself something to do now, now that everything else is gone, lost, evaporated, finished. The point is to try and leave an honest account of what it's like living with this, living like this, to try to record what occupies probably 80% of my time--dealing with depression.

And besides, maybe it would be entertaining.

• We can lie in bed together and stare at the ceiling and consider all the ways in which putting on our socks is not only a waste of effort but physically impossible!

• We can reminisce about my 30 some-odd years of talk therapy which came to nothing, in which I enthusiastically explored every conceivable back alley of childhood trauma or abuse, hoping to find some event or condition that would give me a therapeutic handle on the problem today. I can introduce you to my 5 or 8 (depending on how you count them) therapists and their various approaches, and talk about my own Patient's Guilt when I refused to get better.

• And pharmaceuticals! Eight years on just about every anti-depressant there is, on and off, all pretty much without effect, EXCEPT FOR one substance, which is borderline illegal and "proven" to be ineffective against depression. How I learned to manufacture and use this substance and so treated myself in secret for 15 years with it. There's a tale worth telling.

• I can show you the day-to-day life of the depressive, the constant struggles (yes: getting the socks on is one), the mental games and negotiations, the great vats of corrupted energy and misplaced worry, the Saharas of guilt and despair, Everglades of doubt, loneliness and pain, Kalihari's of grief and shame, and the great, enormous waste of it all: waste of life and waste of talent, waste of love and waste of joy. The unexpected tears, paralyzing anxiety, and social fears; the panic-inducing feelings of abandonment and obliteration, and the great, pervading sadness. The great physical pain. Because yes, at its worst, it finally does come down to a kind of non-localizable physical pain. A terrible ache in your soul that gnaws and throbs without surcease and from which there is no escape and no relief except unconsciousness. We can go exploring. I know the country like the back of my hand.

So are these things people want to read about? Are these things I even want to write about?

Well, fuck it, yes. I want to try. Not because I think it will help anyone (except maybe me), because I really don't think it will. I really don't think there's much you can do about depression except distract yourself and endure it.

No, I want to do this because this is what I know, and I think I know it pretty damned well, and I'm selfish and I want my story told. I want people to know what it feels like in here. I want to relate what I've learned. I want to point out where the experts are wrong. I want to rage and vent or whimper and moan, but most of all, I guess, I want to still try and connect. I want to force myself to try, embarrass myself into trying, shame myself into making an effort, and shoving myself out into public seems like a good way of doing that.

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Depression being what it is, the above was written 4-5 days ago. Since then I've gone through the usual mental fisticuffs over the whole idea of starting this blog, tried to find the motivation for getting it going, telling myself it was a test of character and courage and then berating myself mercilessly for my apparent lack of both. I've read it over and found it inadequate, trite, melodramatic, self-indulgent, and just pitiable.

Hopefully today I'll start the blog and post this.