Depression, Succubi, Adultery, and the Damn Travel Channel
Depression is a lot like an all day sleep-and-bingeathon, only there aren’t any cool accolades if you eat more than a human reasonably ought to. I watch TV sometimes. There’s a show called Man Versus Food on Travel Channel where the show’s host, Adam Richman, goes around the US in search of restaurants with customer challenges that would send any sane man crying home to his mama. I’m serious. Try doing something like eating a ten-pound burger in less then five minutes. The rare select few whose intestines don’t explode get some kind of reward, like a T-shirt and their name on a plaque.
I don’t know why they do that. I’ve seen the fat that drips off of cooking hamburger meat, and if you’re crazy enough to eat a ten-pound burger then the plaque comes post-attached to your arteries. Following that, if your intestines have the fortitude to withstand the culinary punishment, it’s your heart that explodes instead.
I’ve always thought they should forego the T-shirts in lieu of toe-tags for this very reason. Whichever part of your body bursts first, the tags make for easy identification.
How unfair is all of this? After all, when I get depressed, I eat a lot. Adam Richman eats more than I do and he doesn’t look a bit depressed. In fact, he looks positively bubbling with gaiety. Maybe it’s because he sleeps a lot, instead. That’s the damned thing about depression. When you sleep all day, you tend to wake up hungry. Then, once you’ve eaten until the capillaries in your eyes all pop, you get sleepy again because of the carb crash and have to call someone to come over and help you back to your bed because you’ve eaten yourself blind.
My grandmother used to tell me if I masturbated I’d go blind, but that wasn’t true, though I did walk in on my roommate doing that once in college and seriously contemplated putting my eyes out. I guess grandma had it half right.
I went to the Golden Corral steak buffet and tried to eat the image out of my head. It didn’t work. I just gained three pounds. And when I found that out, I went for some serious comfort food then.
And I started knocking on the door before I went into my dorm room.
Because of depression I ruined a wonderful job once. For one brief golden year I taught English at a college. The job was a dream-come-true. Then Rebecca, the girl of my dreams, dumped me for a man who makes a quarter of a million dollars. I was already in a bad place because I had left my wife for Becky and my conscience kept telling me I had to mask the pain by eating at establishments with names like Fat Daddy’s or Gut Busters. Otherwise I knew I was going to have to face what I did. Facing up to your own treachery and betrayal never, ever tastes good.
To make matters worse, Becky was suicidal. That’s enough to drive anyone into a depressed state. Especially when you’re taking phone calls four and five times a night to talk someone off of a potential ledge.
Not only that but she suffered from a mood disorder that drove me to the edge of my own personal cliff. I’m sure she suffered from several other disorders, actually. Unfortunately being a life-sucking, gold-digging succubus hasn’t been entered into the DSM-V yet. There’s no medicine for that. Instead of pills I found out the hard way that they were handing out well-paid computer engineers instead. When that happened I hoped Becky would get an STD.
She got a BMW instead.
The worst thing about all of this is that Adam Richman never seems to gain a freaking ounce. It would be different if he were as round as a basketball and half the size of Jupiter.
Luckily I’m six foot four. I don’t look like Jupiter, but most of the weight is in my stomach. I look like Saturn instead. After all, that’s pretty fitting because Saturn was considered the Roman god of generation and noting generates like binge eating and sleeping all the time.
Unless you’re Adam Richman. But I bet with all the money he’s not too depressed about anything unless he get salmonella after eating a ten mile sausage dog.
Seriously, depression not only takes the life out of you, but it takes you out of life. That’s the real mischief of depression. Instead of doing my job I went home and curled up into a fetal position until the next day. Working with my students was what got me through each day. But in the end I sabotaged that. The main thing I want anyone reading this to take away is that if you find yourself in the same place I did, GET HELP.
And not the kind that comes from buffet bars or hiding in your bed and praying for your life to go away. If I do my blog correctly tonight there should be a link to the signs and symptoms of this sometimes debilitating disorder.
As for the life-sucking succubus, dump his or her ass and fork over the fee for eHarmony. I found two amazing girls there. One is a physician and she’s my best friend. The other I’m going to marry.
Grab a stake, not a steak. Use a crucifix if you think it will help. Get the toxic partner out of your life. Leave the vampires to Stephanie Meyers. That voice telling you that you won’t find anyone else is a liar.