Depression makes no sense. It strikes many people you don’t suspect. It’s something hidden because it’s something most are embarrassed about. Those that have it are often viewed as weird and are avoided by others.
Depression, like all mental illness, is stigmatized.
What right do I have to feel lonely or be depressed or, for that matter, make a series about it?
I’m not chronically depressed but to simply say I get sad or I’m deep or sensitive is kind of bullshit. I suffer from depression. And I have for a long time.
There I said it.
The black dog is a frequent visitor – luckily for me its bark is worse than its bite.
It’s something I never talk about because I’m embarrassed and I feel guilty. I feel guilty that I’m even writing this. I feel guilty because I have amazing people in my life who deserve better than someone who shuts down and freezes for no apparent reason.
Depression makes no sense.
It’s a crippling sadness; it’s an inability to breathe; it’s an endless fog; a smothering quicksand along with a thousand other dark and brooding images. But it’s real. And I know a lot of people that have it. And suffer from it. And deal with it.
It’s a symptom of the modern world.
And when we talk about it, it can be funny and even cathartic.
Which is why I wanted to make a series about it. Low Life by no means offers solutions. It doesn’t even pretend to. But hopefully it sheds light where there was once darkness on a topic that, until even a few weeks ago, I was afraid to talk about.