Witing about depression
A Lot About Depression
by Christopher R. Myers
God, I write about depression often. Not even always in the sense of glorifying or weeping, but just about the state of being that is depression. I suppose it is “more interesting”, or that is one of those thoughts that is tied to that age old dangerous lie that artists are broken damaged and dark and it is their unfix-able issues that make them interesting.
I hate this notion. Probably because it personally harmed myself and my life and my current possibilities at any hopes for a future, almost as much as the financial collapse of 2008, an inaffordable yet necessary education institution, and the destruction of the middle class. My early 20s were a hurricane of un-containable emotions, mental breakdowns, and self medicating with anything that crossed my vision for longer than 37 seconds. Suffering for art that I was too stoned to create. Suffering for some lofty ideal passed down from Ivy League thinkers looking back on great art from their well funded backgrounds, with their culturally ingrained acceptance of medication and therapy along with the ability to afford it, and speculating pithily on how great music only came from Cobain because of his debilitating mental health. That Van Gogh could only see colors the way he did because of his manic-depression. These dumb asses with their lives set before them who program the way we talk about art, comedy, creativity, and it's intersection with mental illness.
It's never a Harvard Comedy shit-head that “could only be so funny if he was struggling to not put a gun in his mouth”, but always those artists from the working class and surrounding that are glorified posthumously for how their fight for survival made them able to breathe reality into word. I write a lot about depression, because it's on my mind often. Long ago it was simply about the feeling that I was to young to describe. Incapable of the language needed to fully express the pull of two magnets tearing my brain at the poles the words would come out as angst or sudden removal from outside life to bury myself in a screenplay that still floats somewhere in the 30 years worth of manic scribbling I've collected. Eventually, I wrote about how the growing pain would consume me in the form of an addiction that would leave me dead and my family wondering. Now, I attempt to write about how I view my own mental illness, and how it has driven me to this place in some odd hope of maybe navigating back around to a place of new growth, and building of a true future.
I write about depression a lot. Probably because writing about mania is a ironically uninteresting. Probably because I've spent a good portion of my existence grappling with it. Most likely, it is because I let the depression drive for so long, that the only way to remember my way back to the road is to understand how it thought to get me here.