Billiam Vs. The Infinite Sadness

When I was in college, one of the special events I actually attended was going to see the "Real Life Hitch," Dating Doctor David Coleman.  It should be noted that it's a weird experience because the man is more Kevin James than Will Smith.

Pictured:  Not Agent J

Pictured:  Not Hancock

Pictured:  Not The Fresh Prince

Pictured: I Could Do This All Day

And in retrospect, a lot of it was mostly heternonormative commonsense knowledge and little factoids than anything earth-shattering - though, confession, at the time I thought it was.  But the one interesting nugget, that has always stuck with me, works thusly:

1.  Pick your favorite animal.  It can be whatever you want, no matter how silly.

2.  Give that animal three characteristics that you think define it or that explain why you like it.

3.  Those three characteristics are actually factors of your personality, specifically the part of you that you think everyone sees you as.

They don't necessarily define you, rather they define your reflected self-image.

To wit, my answer:  The Majestic Raccoon, who, as we all know, is masked, scruffy, and adorable.  i.e. I was certain that everyone thought of me as this cute if unkempt critter that was always hiding its face by default.  It was a fairly accurate result.

Pictured:  Me...?

I bring this up because I wanted to address something from my previous post in greater detail, and I figure it was an easier lead-in than "Hey, depression sucks because it completely wrecks your brain."  Whoops, there goes that idea!

So yes, that's the particularly shitty thing about suffering from depression or some similar condition.  It's different for everyone, and for me it manifested in a kind of internal social anxiety.  This was something I finally started combat somewhere around college when I realized that people actually seemed to take to me pretty well.  Not that I ever really believed them mind you.

That's where the raccoon imagery comes in, see.  I was sure that in reality I was just this adorably broken little thing that people just took pity on, even though it was oh-so-clear I was wearing a mask - a mask so familiar it had become a part of me.  Even in later years when I began to understand that I was being unreal about my perspective, there was a significant difference between what I told my brain and what my brain told me.  I could have had signed and dated confessions from every single one of my friends that they truly did appreciate me and I still wouldn't have believed it.

I was The Majestic Raccoon, all hail my pitiable scruffiness.

Praise me!  PRAISE ME!

Because I can't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday (probably a donut-ham-hamburger or something), but I sure as hell remember that time in high school I didn't get invited to a party that I wouldn't have gone to in the first place.

Because I never believed my girlfriends when they said they loved me.  I thought they tolerated me, at best.

Because no matter how many times someone couldn't understand why I'm single, I already knew that it was because I find it impossible to believe someone would go out with me, and I cling to my crushes like a life raft rather than get decimated again.

Because even when I was at my lowest, I refused to admit defeat and ask for help, because who would legitimately show me the same grace of a listening ear and an understanding shoulder like I had done for them?

Because why would I go to that party when there are Cracked articles to be read alone in my room while chiefing on a hookah for three hours?

Because when I was told that my friends and my dean of students toasted me last year, mourning my absence, I couldn't even fathom this happening.  I was sure it was some kind of fever dream I'd invented for myself, no matter how many times I stared at the Facebook post.

Because I was a damn good director in college, but my actor's appreciative praise fell on deaf ears sometimes.

Because any time I got cocky, it was almost always an act.

Because I am my worst enemy.

Truly, Lit was the voice of a generation.  Of raccoons.

I didn't have an angel or a devil on my shoulders.  Just a little ragged, water-logged raccoon constantly telling me that I was shit.

Pictured:  A Terrible Analogy

Now, backing up a bit, this was far from the only manifestation of my depression.  There was the deadening of emotions.  There was the inability to get out of bed some days.  There were the dropping grades and the inability to care.  But I think this was ultimately the source of it all.  And it's different for everyone.  See, for instance, Hyperbole and a Half's Adventures in Depression Parts 1 & 2.  Some of those stories stick with me, some of them aren't me at all.

And those little pills I mentioned last time?  They help, but they're not everything.  You don't just suddenly wake up a new person.  They're not magic.  And don't believe the television or the movies (which is really great advice for pretty much everything).  Those little fuckers took WEEKS to work.  Agonizing weeks wondering if maybe I was on the wrong medication.  It was a slow and steady climb, and I had to do a lot of mental exercises to help them along.  And each day was combat session, and I roll a lot of 1's on that d20 (whaddup nerds).  I had to beat back that soaked raccoon with a hefty piece of wood I grabbed off the ground with bloody hands.

Pictured:  There's some stuff I absolutely WILL NOT Google.

As is my MO much of the time, there's not really a good dismount for this.  It's not over.  I still have really bad days where I pretty much leave work and don't do a damn thing for the rest of the day.  I doubt myself, a LOT.  I second guess everything.

So I guess that's your takeaway, so to speak.  There are no magical cure-alls.  There's just life, and what you do with it.  Like that schmaltzy saying goes:  Everyone you meet is fighting a battle, so don't hesitate to jump into the fray with your +3 dwarven axe.

Did I quote that right?