I suffer from a lovely little illness called depression. It’s hereditary and I think about ninety-five percent of my family has it. Lots of them are in denial, but I’m outing them all right now. I take a wonderful anti-depressant every morning and it helps me get out of bed each day. You wouldn’t know it from a couple of conversations with me, because I am a good actor, but I live with a feeling of despair all the time. The last few weeks have been a doozy of a time fighting this stuff. I have wanted to stay in bed with the covers over my head. Every single day has been a struggle to get to work. On my days off, I’ve hardly moved at all. Shower? Forget about it. Thank God I had some obligations over the Labor Day weekend so that I was forced to get up and join the real world. (Thanks, Emily, for discovering Monopoly and wanting to play about six hours of it with me! You and Reece are wonderful therapy.) Someone once asked me what I had to be depressed about. That’s not it. It’s an illness and situations have nothing to do with it.
Today, instead of just coming home from work and sitting on the sofa and staring at the walls, I cleaned house! To a non-depressed person, that doesn’t sound like much, but those of you out there who share my affliction will understand what it means: I’m coming out of the black hole. A little. Enough anyway to see a little light. So, that brings me to my vacuum cleaner. It doesn’t suck enough! Going to have to figure out why. Which is another project. Which gives me something to do. Right now that’s pretty good.