Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut, by Michael Davis
…sometimes you don’t. Today, I do.
Let me warn you in advance this article will have little if anything to do with comics, movies, or politics or any other popular culture obsession I tend to write about. This article is about how I feel, as in how I feel. I tell you this for two reasons; the first is my apology if this column wastes your time, the second is because I think of my readers as friends and writing this may help me feel better.
So in a very real way I’m looking for a little help from my friends.
Over the last few weeks I’ve been a bit depressed. I mean really depressed. I’ve had no pep, nothing seems to move me, I’ve been sleeping a lot and I have very little motivation. When I say sleeping a lot I mean a lot. I’m getting eight hours of sleep a night. A normal night for me is five hours max. My mood accounts for my last two lackluster articles. Hey, I know they were not great and anytime I do a fluff piece on a personal favorite artist of mine like Sinatra then I’m really at a lost for something to say.
This behavior is SO not who I am. Coming from a family with deep roots in the medical field I was told by more than one person that I might be clinically depressed.
What’s even more disturbing is that depression is a mental illness. Mental illness is very scary for me to hear, as I have NO desire to self medicate or seek therapy. I’m OK with the term crazy – I have been called crazy most of my life. My high school year book (from the greatest high school in the history of high schools: The High School of Art & Design in New York!) was filled with dedications to me like “Michael, use that crazy brain and become famous,” or “You one crazy guy,” or “Michael, I know someone as crazy as you will do just great!” These are actual quotes from my yearbook. I know I have a wicked sense of humor and that being labeled crazy was kind of cool, but the thought of being depressed…I mean really depressed as in needing medication is really…depressing.
I thought my mood was because I was just creatively blocked or simply run down, as I’ve been really busy. Now I’m not so sure. The real tip off for me that something is really wrong is nothing gets under my skin lately. Nothing makes my blood boil and nothing makes me want to rant.
Case in point, I heard the other day that some women who are Hillary Clinton supporters would rather vote for John McCain than support Barrack Obama. They would rather put in Bush 3 than vote for the other Democrat because they don’t like the way that Clinton is being treated.
These stupid ass women who are life long Democrats want to send a message to show how pissed they are. They want to send a message by voting for someone they hate to run the free world. This stupidity had no affect on me, so now I know I’m depressed.
If I am clinically depressed I’ve been told I have two options. The first is medication and the second is therapy.
Drugs or an overpriced therapist who will ask me about my father?
Look, I have nothing but respect for those people who need therapy or drugs to deal with their demons; I’m just not that guy.
I don’t know why I’m depressed but I’m not sitting down and sharing my inner most thoughts about my father. Look, I have NO IDEA who my real father was. My mother has never shared that information with me and I don’t care to ask.
I know that some people need to know every damn thing about their absent daddys but, again, I’m not that guy. Why should I give a crap about someone who abandoned my mother and me? Frankly, unless my real father is Bill Gates I would not care less if he was hit by a truck and dragged to his death by his lips. I’m serious; if I found out he was killed by a roaming band of hobbits I could give a shit. My mother raised me with no help from that man so why would I want to find him or talk about him?
Now, if my father is Bill Gates, I would say “Mr. Gates, no Bill, oh heck Daddy, give my mother some money and then get the *uck out…but leave an X-Box 360…and some games. Now you can leave. Oh wait, transfer some money into my bank account for all my pain and suffering. Now go!”
“Leave your cell number just in case I need to talk to you about any medical issues or I need some money or a small island. Now just go…wait can I hold your wallet?”
Even depressed I try and bring some levity to my situation.
Ha. If my mother does not want to talk about my father then why should I make it an issue?
As to my other option, drugs. I don’t see myself (given my over-the-top personality) regulating my mood with drugs.
Now let me be very clear: I’m talking about me, my needs. I have no opinion nor do I care if you or someone else wants to sit with a therapist or pop some pills to help you make it through the day. That’s on you. I’m not doing it… period.
Naive? Maybe. Immature? Probably. Stupid? Could be. Stubborn?
I may or may not be clinically depressed. I may just be good old fashioned down in the dumps. I may just be sad about something. I’m not sure what that something is but that may be the problem.
I’ve been told I have many of the tell tale symptoms of depression but I was also told once I was gay by a gay man. I was at a club and this guy started talking to me. If you know me you know I’ll talk to anyone, gay, straight, bi, white, black, liberal, conservativ…well almost anyone.
Anyway, this guy asks “Are you here with anyone?” I say; “No I’m rolling alone.” I was waiting for my date but I did not want to look like a geek in admitting that. I was so damn young and stuff like that was important to me then. He put his hand on my waist and said, “Would you like to come home with me?” The music was so loud I thought that I misheard so I yelled “Pardon?” He then put his other hand around my waist and repeated; “Would you like to come home with me?” I looked at this guy for a second then said “I like girls and if I wanted a little bitch I would go home and play with my dog.” He said; “Look, I KNOW you are gay, we can keep it on the down low if you want.” I took his hands from around my waist and asked “What makes you think I’m gay?” He looked me up and down and said with a laugh “You may not know it yet, but you are.” He then walked away after blowing me a kiss.
And he never called.
So being told I have many of the tell tale symptoms of depression to me means nothing.
YOU may say-‘Why don’t you talk to a doctor and see if perhaps you are clinically depressed?’
Nah. I’ll just see where this feeling takes me.
Naive? Maybe. Immature? Probably. Stupid? Could be. Stubborn?
Will I talk to a doctor?
Why? Because I’m feeling down, I’m feeling sad, I have no pep but I may just get over it. My great grandmother was over 100 years old when she died and never needed a therapist. She had a very hard life much harder than mine so I’m not going to a damn doctor because I don’t feel like dancing. Jesus, in this day and age people go to therapy because they oversleep.
Tatiana (the artist who does the art for this column) called to ask me what the subject was for this week’s article. I really did not even want to talk about anything then she asked was I OK. I said “I’m a bit depressed.” She said “Is that the subject of your article?” I thought for a second and answered “Why not?” I could tell she thought I was a bit nuts and maybe I am, but for me this is my therapy. My weekly rants in this column give me a needed outlet. I’m speaking to like-minded comic book people who understand me and a few even like me. This is better for me than talking to some sucky therapist about sleeping in the same bed with my sister and mother when I was six.
Look I just shared that with you and did not have to pay $500.00 dollars for an hour to do so.
I’m feeling better already. I have an idea. I’ll have a therapy session right here, right now.
Me: What seems to be the problem, Michael?
Me2: I’m feeling down.
Me2: Over the last few weeks I’ve been a bit depressed. I mean really depressed. I’ve had no pep, nothing seems to bother me also I’ve been sleeping a lot and I have very little motivation.
Me: You hate your father Michael?
Me2: I don’t even know my father.
Me: Yes, who really knows their father?
Me2: No, asshole, I don’t know who my father is.
Me: Who you calling an asshole?
Me2: I’m calling you an asshole.
Me: But, I’m you.
Me2: So that means I’m you.
Me: Very good! That’s a breakthrough! Go with that tell me what you feel!
Me2: I feel…why am I crying?
Me: Times up. See you next Friday.
You know, in writing this I really do feel better. The question is how long will I feel this way? I have moments during the day when I feel great. Those times are usually when I’m working on one of my projects. I just can’t account for the long hours during the day when I just feel, blah. For me not to go off on some of the asinine things that have happened over the last few weeks in the media or in my life simply boggles my mind.
Look, I know this article is a bit gloomy but I try and live up to the name of this column, Straight No Chaser. I said I would always tell my readers the truth and the truth is I’m just not feeling great these days.
Maybe now that I wrote all of this down I will feel much better.
If you or someone you know is dealing with depression I wish nothing but good things for you. However you choose to try and deal with it is OK with me. To paraphrase Frank, I have to deal with it my way.Speaking of Frank: Shane, I will call you back when I’m feeling better so don’t take it personally. I still love you… in a non-Brokeback way.
To all the other people who have expressed concern about me, thanks but I really will get over this. I’ll figure out what is wrong and then…wait a sec, now that I think of it maybe I’m just horny.
Columnist Michael Davis knows My Way was actually written (well, the English lyrics) by Paul Anka and not Frank Sinatra. Maybe that’s why he’s depressed.