There’s no ‘i’ in charlatan

I’ve been depressed.

It’s not funny. That bothers me. Most (all) of my successful methods in coping with something difficult involves carving out the humor of a situation, which leaves me fundamentally impotent when dealing with this problem. For the last month of my absence, I’ve been trying to think of a way to make my depression funny so I could finally have a story to tell about how I overcame it and maybe give someone at least a modicum of hope. Unfortunately, sitting in the shower until the hot water runs out doesn’t have a punchline.

My depression has, in the past year, become my companion. In recent months, we’ve been inseparable. This thing that is always there, encouraging me to sit on the couch and watch an entire afternoon of Dr. Phil and I’ll be like, “But I don’t even like Dr. Phil, he’s a charlatan” and the depression will quip back with, ‘I bet you don’t even know how to spell charlatan. Now finish your tub of pudding.”

And I will. I did. I watched the days go by without writing anything, knowing that it was the only authority that could halt the progress on the hole I was digging for myself. Periodically, I would comfort myself by running errands or blow drying my hair. Depressed people didn’t run errands or care about their appearances, they didn’t even get out of bed. I got out of bed. But no matter what I did, I never dared to be happy. Being happy in front of my depression was embarrassing. Like having someone walk in on you while you’re peeing in a gas station bathroom. Or in my case, mid-tampon insertion.

I only recently recognized the pervasiveness of referring to it as my depression. Implying that it belongs to me – something I earned, something I intend on keeping. But externalizing it almost made it easier to deal with than if I had admitted to it as a state of being. I still had a chance to give it away, but with each opportunity I negotiated it back into my life much like I would an ill-fitting sweater. What if I need to watch the same Gilmore Girls rerun on two different channels within two hours of each other? What if I need to nap in the middle of the day for no apparent reason while listening to the same maudlin tune on repeat? What if I need to pretend that none of it is cause for alarm?

I couldn’t just place my bets on maybe being productive and excited about life. I could easily fail at that. I knew being miserable was a sure thing and based on how much I had already invested, I decided to maintain my life of latency and negativity. But the cool thing about deciding to be miserable is that I can also decide to not be miserable.

Which is what I’m doing. My mandate to decide came a little over a week ago, when one of my few trips outside found my path intersecting with Dave Chappelle’s. I told my mom about the happenstance meeting. About how it was just the two of us at the same table, since everyone else was inside shielding themselves from the recent downpour. About the cigarettes he smoked and the pleasantries we exchanged and how thoroughly he kept to himself, even when a few fans came up asking for autographs. She asked only one question:

“He’s depressed, too, isn’t he?”

I didn’t know what to say. Too? I hadn’t talked to anyone about being depressed, least of all my mother. I wondered how she could’ve known and couldn’t believe how ridiculous I was for thinking that I was anything but painfully transparent. Not wanting to fall into a trap of semantics, I briefly paused and responded with, “I don’t know. Maybe.” Then I offered an empty bit of trivia in hopes of resetting the conversation and remarked that he was shorter than I expected.

For the first time since it was inaugurated as my justification to defecate on everything I could possibly care about, I wasn’t embarrassed of this depression – I was embarrassed for it. Of course, there were days following where I still found it impossible to do much more than put a bra on, but I eventually built up the nerve to refuse my penchant for self-induced pity. I’m just now getting to the point of breaking my routine and discarding all of the pseudo-comforts that depression can sometimes bring. I’m still depressed, I’m just finally letting myself recover.

And you know, I actually don’t know how to spell charlatan. So yeah, this is at least a little funny.

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