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Week 6 – Depression and the Philosophy of Being Fucked

September 11, 2012

The first, second and third things that come with depression, in order, are: 1) denial of your depression, 2) forgetting how you dragged yourself up the last time you were depressed, 3) sweatpants. And I threw out all my sweatpants believing if I removed comfort from the equation I could somehow erase the possibility of depression. Like throwing out the plate to prevent a sandwich.

Depression’s a funny thing. In me, it’s a chemical deficiency that creates extreme anti-social behaviour, self-loathing and self-destruction. The brain doesn’t really care where it gets its next endorphin rush from, and being shitty and miserable will turn on the endorphin faucet with less energy than say, joy.

But there I was. Fully aware of what was happening, unable to recall how I had previously dragged myself out of these slumps and uncomfortable in jeans.

My muscles started to get sore from not being used. My fantasies become more disjointed and hyper-active. Anything productive was quickly swept into a pile and ignored in favor of… nothing.

As proof, there’s 8 pieces of paper next to me right now. Each one scrawled with things to do, ways to feel better and similar. Each one with a unique date in the last six weeks. And they all say the exact same thing. All of them. I wrote, re-wrote and tried to yank myself out of my funk eight different times – independently, I didn’t copy down, I just came up with possible solutions and they all turned out the same – and it didn’t happen.

But I’m coming around now. Getting better, feeling better, working better. I have a gig, regular income and honestly the only thing I hate is the commute. And every time I get really angry at the commute, I look at my bank statement or ask friends in the city how much they pay in rent.

What’s changed over the last four days to finally pull myself out of it? I don’t know. I re-wrote my to do list for the year for the ninth time and might’ve made plans that scare the shit out of me. Something so big that it requires a complete lifestyle re-adjustment and practically guarantees ending in failure. Which is exciting – the prospect of failure always kind of excites me. It never turns me off a project. I derive a great deal of joy from that beautiful moment when everyone involved gets a hard, honest look at failure, then turns to each other, shrugs with finality and says: “Oh fuck it.”

That’s practically my ideal state of being. Anyone can maintain a well-oiled machine. But teetering on the edge of ruin – that’s where I fucking shine.

It’s also why I embrace the philosophy of Being Fucked. And this is one of it’s theme songs:

I love this song because it makes me feel like shit. The first time I heard it was the last time I cried. It made me feel friendless, worthless and like nothing I had ever done and ever would do mattered. All because no matter how hard you try, no matter how good you are: no one will miss you when you die, no one will think of you and cry, no one notices your brand new t-shirt. I cried on the bridge near my house. It hurt so much I couldn’t even keep walking.

The second time I listened to it, which was immediately after the first time, I embraced it as a hymn to Being Fucked. Because even if you’ve done all you should, you’ve been polite and you’ve been good – nothing works. You’ll die and eventually no one will remember you and nothing will stand and nothing will matter.

So fuck it.

The void of pitch black that screams you don’t matter isn’t a sentence, it’s liberty. You can do anything and you should because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters in the eternal scheme of things and even your brain’s chemicals are lazily trying to pull you down.

The Philosophy of Being Fucked is enthusiasm to counter a lack of control. It’s the abandonment of legacy. It’s whittling down all possibility of anything beyond life and death. It’s facing the black of despair and fear and forcing yourself to see the atoms and universe inside.

When you accept that you and everyone else are fucked, the choice is to 1) give up, 2) rebel.

I’m not saying it’s smarter, I’m not saying it’s better. I’m certainly not saying it’s healthier. I just embrace the Philosophy that we are all, 100%, Fucked. I actively make decisions that push me to the edge of failure because that’s the only line I can see that makes sense to walk. I choose to live, write and make things because I regularly see the alternative of not. Meaninglessness isn’t the end of the world. It’s a challenge. Can you be better than you are, even if it doesn’t mean anything? Even if no one will know or, eventually, care? Can you improve the world you live in, if only for a minute?

Are you strong enough to be who you want to be? For no other reason than it’s what you want?

I’m going to try. Because fuck it. Why not.

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