Smart or Funny?

I've noticed that in life, people are often characterized by very basic traits. I suppose that's human nature, but it's irritating. All of my life, I have been called "the funny one", when compared to my high-achieving sister, parents, friends, or other relations. Sure, it's wonderful to be considered funny. In fact, laughter is kind of my litmus test for friendship or acquaintanceship of any depth. If I can make you smile, or, better yet, laugh, within the first five minutes of knowing you, I am good to go. I can work with you, play with you, listen to you, talk to you, relate to you. I'm all set.

If I can't make someone even crack a smile, I worry. There feels like there is no common ground, no connection. And without that, you've got nothing.

So I'm fine with being funny, amusing, witty, whatever.

But does that mean I can't be considered intelligent as well?

Let me just say that I'm walking into this with the baggage of a family chock-full of PhDs. I mean, they're EVERYWHERE. Me, I only have two Master's degrees to my name. So I'm kind of a lightweight in my family.

But what I'm noticing, that is troubling to me, is that now that my children are both teens, I can't help them as much in school anymore. My husband (PhD) is not only a master of math, science and tech, but an amateur historian. I can really only contribute to my kids' educational challenges if they're speaking a foreign language, or writing something. I taught high school English, proofread in an ad agency, and have been writing stories, plays and essays for as long as I knew how to pick up a pencil.

What I worry about is my kids thinking, oh yeah, Mom, she's hilarious, but not that bright. My husband carries the mantle of his education from a VERY swanky school, with years of varied and intellectually challenging work to his name.

Obviously, I must not be a total airhead. My husband wouldn't be able to stand it. He gets annoyed with people who are ignorant, don't think, or aren't curious. I try not to be ignorant, I definitely think a lot, and am curious. But I'm more curious about human behavior, motives, actions, body language, backstory, creativity, self-expression, education, theatre, improv, teaching, than, say, molecular physics.

Does this preclude me from the Smarty-Pants Brigade? It shouldn't. Look, I know I'm not stupid (a word I actually NEVER use on people because it's just mean). But at times I find myself feeling intellectually dwarfed, not just by my husband, siblings and parents, but by my kids as well.

I mean, let's face it, they are already lapping me in so many academic subjects. I mean, I do my division the European way, so I can't help with even basic math. And I don't remember my Canadian history, except for the Seigneurial System. That's about it. And all the horrible violence in Quebec by the FLQ in the 70s. But nobody in New York gives a shit about any of that.

So, sometimes, I feel rather dumb. Or out of the loop.

It reminds me of when I was interning at the performing arts school in Boston with another grad student, I'll call her Renee. The sophomore students enjoyed spending time with both of us, but one kid actually said to my face, "You're the funny one, she's the smart one". And I never forgot it. It stung.

Can I not be smart and funny? I want it all. The high highs, the low lows, the creamy middles. No, that's a line from "The Simpsons". WAIT A MINUTE. That's a funny AND smart show.

It CAN be done. Doh, why didn't I think of that?

Waiting for Book Club

The definition of insanity-When you keep doing the same thing over and over and expect a different outcome.

For three years now, I’ve lived in a small, affluent community full of many women, who, like me, are fortunate enough not to have to work full time to make ends meet. As a result, many of us have some time on our hands, especially if our children are in school all day, or out of the nest and launched into the outside world.

What better way to spend some time with others than at a book club?

Well, I wouldn’t know, since I’ve never been to one. Not here, anyway.

Full disclosure: I did attend one book club ONCE in Southern California, in a similar community, and I was one of the only people who really wanted to talk about the book. Because the word “book” was in the title of the event, I had assumed we’d be talking about it, at least in a cursory manner. I subsequently learned that wine and gossip were really the highlights of the evening.

Flash forward a decade or so...we’ve just moved to this little town outside NYC, and I know NOBODY. So what better way to get ensconced in the community than to attend an evening full of strangers where I’m likely to offend at least half the people by holding a controversial opinion? I mean, I don’t even know the lay of the land, here. What was I thinking?

So, over the past three years, every two or three months, I’d get the Paperless Post invite, reply that YES, I would be attending said meeting. I'd find out the featured book, order it on Amazon, read it, and then not go to the event. Every. Single. Time.

I was motivated by good intentions: I was new, I wanted to make friends, get to know my community, But a book club isn’t necessarily the way to do that.

Because, yes, I’ve read a lot of those book club recommendations. But I have to say, most of them are deeply depressing. And I don’t mind downers, or dark shit. I thought “Fall on Your Knees” was amazing, and it had incest and death dripping from its pages. I tried to read “A Little Life” and I just could not do it. Life is too short to be that bummed out. (This from a diehard Smiths, The Cure, and "Black Mirror" fan.)

It’s just that there are different kinds of dark, bleak, depressing stories. And as someone with chronic and pernicious depression, I kind of have to watch my back on some of these books of the month. If I’m having a rough patch, I really don’t want to read about suicide, war, famine, or alienation. (And I NEVER want to read about dead babies. Sorry, “Beloved”.)

But on my good days, I’m mostly okay with darkness. Loved “The Handmaid’s Tale”. But it’s not a laugh riot. I find broad comedies too, I don’t know, broad, I guess. When a book is so formulaic that you know the entire plot by the end of the first chapter, what’s the point? It’s like eating a whole box of Entenmanns or something--you shouldn’t have bought it in the first place, because you knew you were going to eat pretty much all of it. Do not engage.

But getting back to the book club paradox. The more books I read, the less my chances of actually attending the event seemed to be. It got to the point about a year and a half ago when I started to buy and read the featured book, pretty much know I wasn’t going to attend, even though I’d reply yes, change it to no, and then wonder why I was so flakey about this.

Partly, I am happy to report, it is because three years in, I have made some wonderful friends, and continue to meet new and interesting people who may or may not share my worldview, but are fun to talk to nonetheless. I’m in a French group. A hiking group. A writing group. I teach Improv. Socializing is awesome.

The other day, I was walking and talking with a wise and beautiful friend and bemoaning the fact that another book club evening was coming up, that I’d read the book, I’d said I’d attend, and knew I probably wouldn’t. She pointed out to me that perhaps I just really don’t WANT to belong to a book club. That maybe I THINK I should go, but really, I don’t want to. I mean, I’m in the community now, I don’t need to go on the “I don’t know anyone, this is like dating” special mixer events anymore. So why am I fooling myself? She also shared that in her experience, book clubs weren’t so much about the books, usually. Which was my limited experience, as you know.

But the thing is, I don’t drink a lot of wine (see depression, above) and I really DO want to talk about the book. The most recent one I read, “The Immortalists” was classic darkness and beauty--depressing as shit, and I couldn’t put it down. Damn you, Chloe Benjamin. The whole premise of the book was that four siblings find out from a soothsaying type of charlatan (or is she?) the dates of their individual deaths. Hello, red flag!

Plus, one of the characters had a condition I also have, and I thought, am I really going to go to a complete stranger’s house and talk about my feelings and reactions to this book about death and mental illness with a whole bunch of other complete strangers? What am I going to do, chomp on a canape and say, “Yes, it was so nuanced, so textured, showing how ephemeral life can be, and how damning one’s perception of one’s fate can become. And I also struggle with mental illness, how about you?” For fuck’s sake.

In fact, this very night, this very minute, as I write this, that very book club event is going on just a couple of miles down the road. And, natch, I am not there.

Time to stop living this lie. Drop the charade.

I just like good book recommendations. And all I really need for that are the invites, and Amazon.

 And my actual, real, live friends.

On Therapists (If you're an actual therapist, this shouldn't piss you off, but if you're full of shit, it just might.)

I saw my meds doc today. She's actually not a doc, she's better. She's a psychiatric nurse practitioner, and I love her work, her style, her advice, her wisdom. She is extremely knowledgeable about the myriad pharmaceuticals I have been on and off over the years, and she is, in a word, pragmatic. She is extremely direct, and suffers no bullshit.

I wish she could be my therapist. I don't have one now. I had a bad experience. I had many bad experiences. And I live in a place where most reputable therapists don't take insurance, so even if I found someone fabulous, I couldn't afford to go. Also, I've been in therapy on and off for four decades now. It's getting old.

I have had so many terrible therapists. Earlier today I was listening to The Hilarious World of Depression, which is awesome, (everyone should listen to if they want to understand depression), and Jeff Tweedy (from Wilco, a famous band whose music I have never heard, but am now interested in) was talking about his anxiety and depression and migraines (twinsies!) and how he was bemoaning the fact that just about anyone who wants to be a "healer" of any kind can put out a shingle and claim to be a therapist, and do untold damage to scores of people. A so-called therapist Tweedy saw when he was in the throes of depression, anxiety and opioid abuse told him to stay on them, because they made him more creative, and just "feel better". Jesus.

I had a sort of inverted experience like that, myself, when I was in my twenties. I got mixed up with a very charismatic and completely unqualified "therapist" whose help included telling me I didn't need to take my meds, that there was nothing wrong with me, that I'd been molested in my past lives, as well as having been an alcoholic in one of said lives, that I was a future warrior in some cultish group she was building, and that being sick was no excuse to miss a meeting with her.

Oh, and she took my money. Lots and lots of money.

And I fell for it all, because I WANTED to be well, to feel normal, to be someone who didn't need medication, someone who didn't need therapy, someone who was perfect just as I was, not defective, like I had felt for most of my life up until that point.

So I drank her very delicious and expensive crystal-infused Kool-Aid.

And it fucked me UP.

Truly, this is a much longer and more gruesome story than this sanitized little summary here, but I want to put it out there to anyone who ends up reading this who is on a mental health odyssey of their own to know that lots of so-called therapists are bad news. Toxic, even.

Yes, there are amazing ones out there, too. I had a couple, out of maybe twelve or so total. Not the best odds. Both of my effective therapists held PhDs in Psychology. Not that it means that you have to have one to be a good therapist, but it helps. My many and mostly useless experiences with therapists taught me not to trust strangers offering to fix you. The implication that you're defective isn't a great starting point in the first place. But these people, mostly, they had Jesus/God/Martyr or Mommy complexes, and were utterly unhelpful and, sometimes, actively harmful.

I will also say this: many people find help online, which is totally dicey. Personally, I find Mark Manson's work to be helpful and encouraging, and no, he's not a Phd and that's fine. But for every sensible human being out there giving advice, there are a hundred, a thousand, or more, out there dying to take your money, promise you the moon, and give you nothing in return, if not outright harm you. Be very careful out there, please.

Other people take solace in their religions or spirituality, and if that helps, (and hurts noone else) then have at it. But know that there are predators out there who will fleece you, and just fuck your head up worse than it was before, all in the name of "helping" or saving your soul in some form. Don't fall for it.

So, word to the wise: if you sense that your therapist has any ulterior motives, EVER yells at you, berates you, tries to get you to see them several times a week for an indefinite AND extended period of time, charges you a lot, flirts with you, touches you, is neither experienced nor educated, and spews mouthfuls of random new age nonsense, hit the road, Jack. Just. Get. The. Fuck. Out.

And if just you don't feel comfortable in general, or it doesn't feel like the right fit, you have every right to get up and walk out and not go back. There is no reason to spend money on someone who is at best, wasting your time, and at worst, actively harming you. You do not owe any kind of commitment to any kind of therapist, no matter what they may try to tell you.

Ray of sunshine here: I had an amazing therapist who was super helpful to me when I got mixed up with the above-mentioned quack. She helped me take control of my life and get away from the bullshit this "guru" was spewing. And years later, I had an absolutely superlative therapist who got me through losing a baby, having a breakdown, maintaining my relationships, and getting well again. He is a stellar therapist and human being. Mad props to Dr. Ronald Malloy in South Pasadena!

So that's it, in a nutshell. Be very careful, trust your gut, and be kind to yourself. You're not stupid or defective or bad or wrong because you have a mental illness. It's a chemical imbalance, and you can both take meds if you need to, and/or talk to someone qualified and trustworthy with an excellent track record, if you so choose.

But choose wisely. Look for credentials, track record, recommendations, and your own reaction to the person. You're interviewing them at that first meeting, not the other way around. I wish I had known that 30 years ago.

I wish you all the best on your journey. I know it isn't easy. But just keep getting back up. You can stand up to your brain chemistry. You can live with it.

You can thrive with it.

Ooh wah, do do do do do do do do, wah, wah wah wah Fashion.

It's been years, but once again, I find myself in a clothing crisis. I'm starting to get work in the corporate world (WTF?), and I have nothing to wear to the ball.

For years, 16, to be exact, I've worn Stay at Home Momwear, which usually consists of sweats and a t-shirt, or something else easily washable and highly stain-resistant.  I got my clothes at Target and Old Navy. Why spend a lot on something that's going to get peed, pooped, drooled and barfed upon on the regular?

Then, as my kids got older, I graduated to Athleisurewear, the leggings and sleeker, more put-together tops that made me look like Fitness Mom, which I sort of was. So I looked a little more on top of things. I found my inspiration at Athleta, usually when there's a sale, and Lululemon, ONLY when there's a sale. Also, still a little Old Navy. Their fitness clothes aren't half bad.

Once I started teaching part-time again, I was able to bring in some of my funky Teaching Artist clothes, and when you're in the arts, and teaching (where the pay is for shit), you can get away with just about anything that other people will say is "quirky" or "cute", but that they'd never dream of wearing themselves. I found my inspiration in upcycled clothes from Etsy. Loved the look. Didn't need to dress for "The Man". Dangly earrings, leather studded bracelets, one-of-a-kind dresses. I was in heaven.

When I found myself teaching in a posh private school, I pulled out my Title Nine dresses, and put on some tights and heels. Definitely good enough for a sub. Nobody really gives a shit about us, anyway, right?

But now, I find myself entering the Corporate World. Dunh dunh dunh.

What do I wear there?

I don't think a camo dress with a lace skirt and combat boots are going to cut it. And I can't sashay in there in my leggings and modal yoga wrap, even though they were expensive and are high-quality. (Full disclosure, I don't do yoga.)

So I am a bit stymied. Where am I supposed to shop?

I know that stores exist for such things. Ann Taylor? Sooo not me. Abercrombie and Fitch? Yikes, not me, either. Anthropologie? Love it, but too young and pricey for me in corporate, probably. Macy's? I have no idea what they have there besides a LOT of makeup. Banana Republic?  What do they even sell there? Isn't that a derogatory term? I'm so confused. Who the fuck is Tommy Bahama? That's got to be vacationwear, right? (Clearly I have limited retail experience.) Chic boutiques that only open for four hours a day, three days a week? Too expensive. The Gap, maybe? But their pants never fit me properly. I look like hell in Gap pants. Not happening.

Other challenges for me, the apparently high-maintenance dresser:

I hate stripes, collars, tabbed sleeves (horrible), work "trousers", slingbacks, blazers, bows, ruffles, shirring, lace, and did I mention collars? Can not do those. And did I mention I'm middle-aged?

So I guess I'm going to have to get creative, which is actually fine. Pick a bit from column A and a bit from column B and see where I end up. My friend, who is a corporate coach, said that basically I just need to put on a nice scarf. I can do that! I have scarves! And not just ones with skulls on them. Victory is mine!

And honestly,  I think it really comes down to the shoes. My first gig in the CW is in May, so my many and diverse boots will not apply. All I have left are athletic shoes and gladiator sandals. Can I wear the latter? Or will it be too cold? I hate ballerina flats, I forget to mention, because they make my feet look like Venetian gondolas. I feel like Ronald McDonald when I wear flats. It's not pretty.

I got some Jambu shoes from Sahalie, because they look nice, but are they too casual? Too sporty? How do I teach Improv in high heels? I can barely WALK in them, let alone jump, dance, and contort my body into different shapes as necessary for my job. What I'd really like to do is wear my Chucks, but I don't think I can get away with that.

I think I'm going to have to consult my friend. Scarves? Check. Shoes? Need some constructive feedback, make sure we're all on the same page, let's put a pin in this. (See? I speak Corporate.)

I just reread this, and it such a First World Problem that I feel like kind of a dick. Honestly, who cares what I have to wear? As long as it's clean and relatively neutral, it should be fine. At this point, I'd rather donate money to gun legislation non-profits. Sometimes they give you t-shirts. Would those be okay to wear?

They should be.

Every Second of the Night, I Live Another Life

If you think hearing about other people's dreams is drop-dead boring, then stop reading right now. I respect that. Or, if you judge people severely based on the fucked-upedness of their dreams, please, moveon.org.

Me, I think dreams (anyone's) are utterly fascinating. They are so wild and interesting and intriguing. Inevitably, one goes into analysis mode. I remember reading one of self-congratulatory but decent writer Chuck Klosterman's entries in "Sex, Drugs and Prozac". He has these little interstitial pieces between the essays that are quite entertaining. One of them suggested a question: What if there was a way to replay your dreams on a screen, and you could watch them, but ONLY on the condition that your friends and family also watch them with you. Would you do it?

Hell, no.

I've been having creepy, scary, disturbing, highly strange dreams for awhile now. I can't quite trace this back to any particular date or event. Could it have been when I started dipping in early March? Could it be that I'm menstruating 75% of the time? (And shouldn't it be womenstruating? Because you know, if men got the curse, there'd be free personal hygiene products on every street corner. Can you imagine He Who Shall Not Be Named with PMS? Total shitshow.)

Or...could the high weirdness quotient be due to the meds I'm taking for my recent series of motherfucking migraines?

I don't know. It probably doesn't matter. But they've gotten pretty weird. I mean, they were always wierd. I rarely have ever had a good dream. But these ones are some next level shit. There tend to be recurring themes. Often, I'm back in undergrad. I am forced to live next door to my nemesis, the girl who slept with my boyfriend, (and pretty much everyone else's, but I digress). I am forced to drink myself pickled every night, like I did back when I was a lost and fucked up pseudo-adult. I never have a schedule for the classes I am meant to be attending, and I never know where my next class is, and I'm always late. Or I just skip. Freudians, start your engines.

The most recent one that I can remember has to do with being caught up in a gang war in someone's house, and I decide to flee in the night so as not to get shot or taken captive. My teenage son is there, and he decides to stay and fight, and I can't convince him to flee with me. (I don't know where the rest of my family is. I did have this dream while they were on a weeklong trip, so perhaps that's why they don't make an appearance.)  So I flee in the night, but I can't see fuck all, and it's dangerous to walk along the road, and there are other people on the road I can't see, who are also dangerous, and I've left my beloved son in a war zone and am trying to go, where? I have no idea. Why? Again, I just don't know. My dreams never have clear answers.

I'm pretty sure another one of them was about an apocalypse of some sort. The end of the world is kind of a recurring thing in my dreams of late. In this one, I think I'm on some kind of Hunger Games-esque situation where I'm being held captive, forced to do horrible things, and then told I "win", when in fact, I am left utterly alone and abandoned, with no resources and no hope.

Such fun.

The thing about these dreams is that sometimes I'll wake up, feel awful, go pee, come back to bed, fall back to sleep, and keep on dreaming these nightmares. It sucks. I mean, do I really need a sequel to these fuckers?

The details are usually vague, but I remember elements, and the essence: They're all horrible.

What do they mean? Am I lost and confused? No more than usual. In fact, I would argue that lately, I'm less lost than I have been in a long time.

Am I alone? Again, I don't think so. I have more friends now than I've had in years. This whole living in one place for more than a year and a half is kind of awesome.

Is the one about my son separating from me because he's getting older and more independent? That's a reasonable analysis.

Are these dreams metaphors for my mental illnesses? Possibly. One does tend to feel isolated, alone, and a bit tortured, but nobody likes to talk about that in mixed company. And when I say "mixed", I mean, most people. (I'm lucky: I have a few friends who are able to listen to my story, not judge it, and be super kind.)

I don't go to therapy anymore. I spent decades in therapy. There's only so far you can go until you know yourself, know how to take care of yourself, know when to ask for help, know what meds work for you, know how to live the most successful life in spite of challenging chemistry. A therapist would no doubt have insights for me about these dreams. But the point of therapy is to learn to become your own therapist. I've read enough self-help books to sink a Carnival Cruise ship, and really, what have I learned? Life has its ups and downs, this too shall pass, take time for yourself, meditate, pray, chill, acknowledge your feelings, stay active, stay social, don't be a dick. The rest is just window dressing.

So, I don't really know what to make of my recent spate of disturbing (and lengthy) dreams.

But if you've read this far, then you're probably analyzing them, too.

Have at it. I'm open to interpretation.

You can tell me yours.

I promise not to judge.

Oops, I did it again.

You may have read my second post on this blog, about saying SORRY all the freaking time.

Just noticed a couple of things in the past few days that reminded me how frequently we invoke this word, and how unconscious it is to just keep saying it over and over.

The other day, someone dear to me was talking about elder and end of life care, and my kids were listening. I did not think this was a problem at all, by the way. She kept apologizing as if bringing up these topics was some sort of crime. We can't protect our kids from everything, and nothing graphic was being said. Just, you know, real-life business. It's not easy to talk about parents ageing and where they may end up living if they need whatever level of support is required, but you have to deal with it at some point. What struck me was how frequently my friend kept apologizing for basically harshing the buzz of whatever we were all talking about before this particular conversation began. So she was saying sorry for bringing up an unsavoury (but necessary) topic. She shouldn't need to be apologizing for that.

Then, today, at Easter brunch, I was fighting a massive migraine, so I kept my sunglasses on. I not only found myself apologizing to everyone at the table for the lack of eye contact, but felt compelled to explain (briefly, so as not to sound whiny) that I was trying to keep things from getting out of hand. I had to use the word migraine, but I didn't want to mention it and upset people. So I was apologizing to other people about the fact that I was in pain, but trying valiantly to hide it. (Just for the record, I was chatty, pleasant, and upbeat.Yes, I'm fucking charming.Sometimes.)  And yet, I found myself feeling the need to say SORRY repeatedly to people BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T SEE THEIR EYES.

THEN, I found myself apologizing, if not in word, then in tone, delivery and demeanor, when all of the adults ordered mimosas, and I ordered a Diet Coke. I was sorry, basically, that I wasn't joining the crowd. Why couldn't I just say, "I would like a Diet Coke, please" and hold my head up high?

For fuck's sake.

So I guess I have a long way to go on reducing the sorries. And so do others.

I'd like to wish everyone a Happy Easter, Happy Passover, Happy Spring Equinox (belated), Happy Pagan Fertility Rites and whatever else you enjoy celebrating. I'm sorry if I've missed any. Damn it, there I go again.

Let's try that one more time: Please excuse any omissions mentioning your spiritual/religious festivities.

I just want you to be happy. Seriously.

Blah.

So I'm going through a bit of a dip right now. Not loving it. But it is what it is. Been struggling all month, getting weepy, feeling listless and uninterested in the things I'm normally into. Classic depression. And we have a winner!

There are many reasons for this: both of my kids are teenagers now, and that feels like a big deal to me. My daughter turning thirteen seems particularly fraught with intensity for me.  (She claims nothing has changed, and, frankly, she's mostly right.) She has so many times told me that she does not want to grow up. And still, she persists in doing so. She is amazing, and I'm proud of her. I'm also proud of my fifteen-year-old boy, who still shows me affection in public. I'm lucky.

I know it's the natural order of things for your children to grow up, launch into the world, and hopefully be happy, healthy, independent and true to themselves. That's all anyone can ask or hope.

But I've spent so much time with these lovely people, and the idea of them leaving the nest fills me with a sadness I can't deny. I hear empty-nesters saying that they are finally able to go on trips, do their own thing, be spontaneous, so much freedom, but that doesn't appeal to me. I love hanging out with my kids, hearing their stories, singing and dancing with them, comforting and listening to them, appreciating them. But I am trying to build myself a little world where I do things outside of my house and family. I'll need it when we're empty-nesters. Isolation really does make you sicker.

There's also the delightful perimenopausal factor. I basically menstruate 3/4 of the time now. Seriously?! So I know my feelings are all over the map because of the massive and wildly changing hormones coursing through my system. It's wonderful being a woman!

Then, of course, there's the usual mental health issues I have: depression is just part of my life. It's part of so many people's lives. I was listening to Krista Tippett (best radio name EVER) on her podcast, On Being, and she was talking to people about how depression is an issue related to the soul. That it's a crisis, it's soul-crushing. And that it's so very lonely. Even when you are surrounded by good people you love and who love you. In this episode, she talks to people who mention that when they're depressed and someone says "Cheer up, go outside, it's beautiful out!" or "Look how great your life is, how can you be depressed?", it only makes them MORE depressed. And guilty. Because then they feel like a failure on top of the depression they already can't shake. I can totally relate to that.

Trust me, if we could shake it off, we would have done that a long time ago. It's not fun to be joyless. It's not fun to be exhausted. The podcast also talked about how tiring depression is. Periodically, throughout my life, I've found myself reduced to tears, repeating, "I'm so fucking tired of trying all the time". I know I'm not the only one who feels this way.

When I feel like this, and my cycle is downward, I just try to stay afloat as best as I can. I keep exercising even though it's like moving through cold molasses in January. I meditate even though my mind never ceases to wander. I eat, I eat, and I eat. I don't seem to not eat. But my tastes change. I find certain things repulsive when I'm depressed. I end up eating a lot of cereal. But I supplement it with all kinds of good shit, so it's not so bad, really. And I definitely love me some dessert when I feel bad. Nothing like eating your feelings.

I also watch a lot of streaming TV or movies, because I want to lose myself in someone else's reality. But I have to be careful that it isn't too depressing, and honestly, when you're depressed, most things are depressing. Death, divorce, guns everywhere the eye can see, post-apocalyptic scenarios and cyber-dramas and dysfunction. Gray-colored glasses. And kooky comedies come off as glib and superficial. What I'm really loving is "Broad City." So crass, so funny, so satirical yet genuine.

And I read about depression. It makes me feel more normal and less alone.

So, there it is.

FYI, NEVER say "Hang in there" to a depressed person. Think of the image it conjures. Keep imagining that. See why you shouldn't say it? Thank you.

One foot in front of the other. That's my motto right now. Or, as Dory from "Finding Nemo" says, "just keep swimming."