The funniest thing anyone’s ever asked me about depression was, “When did it start?”

Like there’s a start date. Like I just woke up one morning, feeling sad, and that was it. I kinda wish it had happened like that, because at least then I could look back and think, “Man, those were the good old days. Back before the world was a huge, empty wasteland.” Or something else appropriately bleak, but more poetic.

The thing that surprises most people who don’t suffer from chronic depression is that we’re not actually sad all the time. Our emotions, like most people’s, are a sine wave. It’s just that our valleys are much lower and last longer than yours do.

And believe me, we know how goddamn ridiculous we are. We know we’re melodramatic. We know that stubbing your toe and spilling your coffee on the morning of a job interview should just be annoying, but for us, it’s a reason to hole up in the bathroom and cry. And it’s not like we don’t understand that we’re overreacting, but when you have as little to live for as we do, you’re always looking for an excuse to exit stage right.

That’s an allusion to suicide, in case you didn’t catch it.

We do that a lot, too, and it’s not because we’re looking for attention. What we’re really saying is, “I feel hopeless, and I want someone to help me.”

And then, when nothing and no one can help you, one of two things happens: 1) You sink lower, and deeper, to a place that’s much harder to find your way out of, where you find yourself crying into a can of root beer and researching suicide methods at 3AM, or 2) You figure life can’t get much shittier, and you’ve got nothing to lose, so you do something crazy as a last-ditch effort to make your life suck less: quit your job, sell your house, touch a spider. You’re literally invincible for awhile because there’s nothing that can make your life any shittier, and you wonder if that’s what real happiness is: feeling like you’re free to do anything.

Unfortunately, the feeling fades pretty quickly. It only lasts until the next conversation with your boss, or the next party you don’t get invited to, or the next time you’re alone and realize you’re going to die without having contributed anything of substance to the world.

Until you’re at a bar with a friend who’s trying so hard to be understanding, and you’re trying so hard to shut up about your feelings, because you know that everyone’s getting tired of you, and your issues, and your sadness, and wondering why you can’t just be fucking happy.

Until they ask, “When did it start?”

Until you force a laugh, and say, “When I realized I’m out of beer. You want another?”

Leo-Great-Gatsby

The theme over the last few weeks has been that a lot of people in my life (myself included) are being hated on and disrespected at work. It’s a bizarrely specific trend, and what makes it so upsetting is that there’s no real reason for it. We’re hardworking and dependable. We show up on time and pull 60-70 hour weeks. We get along with almost everyone we work with. And yet here we are, commiserating over text messages and bottles of wine about the way we’re being treated.

Most of us have been talking about how mad we are, but the most heartbreaking moment for me was this afternoon, when one of my friends had the courage to describe what we’re feeling as devastation.

“And it’s such an impotent sadness, too,” I said. “Once people have made up their minds about you and/or how they’re going to treat you, there’s almost nothing you can do about it.”

It’s hard for me to even type that, because I still haven’t fully accepted it. There’s a Jay Gatsby in all of us: the voice in your head that tells you that if you just try harder– if you smile a little more, if you ask for a little less, if you could just be better— then eventually, you’ll win ‘them’ over. You’ll get the promotion, the raise, the girl. You’ll change their minds.

But you won’t. It’s an unpleasant reality, but once someone has made up their mind to dislike you, there is almost nothing you can do to change it.

I’m not saying you should just sit back and accept being treated poorly– for fuck’s sake, if someone is being an asshole to you and/or compromising your health and safety, you goddamn better speak up and defend yourself– but you can’t control how they feel about you.

And more importantly, it’s not worth your time to try.

Look, we’re all vain. We’re the heroes of our own stories, and most of us consider ourselves to be worthwhile human beings. So it’s always something of a shock to find out someone you know doesn’t like you. The closer you are to a friend, the more it hurts to discover they’ve betrayed you. The more dedicated you are to your company, the more devastating it is to be treated as disposable. The more you love your partner, the more gut-wrenching it is when they announce that they want to break up. For the most part, unless given evidence to the contrary, we tend to assume that other people feel about us the way we feel about them. And the longer we go on believing that, the more it hurts to find out we were wrong.

But listen, it’s probably not you. If you can look at yourself in the mirror and, without nitpicking every interaction you’ve had with your hater, confidently say that you’ve done nothing wrong, then their animosity is officially not your problem. Quit worrying about changing their minds, because you won’t. And yeah, it’s going to hurt, and yes, you’re going to have moments where you think that maybe if you’d just tried harder… But stop it. That’s not serving you, that’s serving them, and that’s not worth your time. The only standards that matter are the ones you set for yourself.

Just do your thing, and let the haters hate.

(This post brought to you by Jay Gatsby: equal parts naïve optimist and poster child for handling your business.)

Once upon a time, I had a LiveJournal. Not the journal where all of my fanfiction lives, but a much older one from when I was in college. I had it locked down so only a few people could read it, and I used it the way LiveJournal intended: I wrote entries about my daydreams, and about how nervous I was to speak in front of my French class. I chronicled all of my adventures as an English tutor in the stuffy library on campus, and I wrote sentimental poetry about my boyfriends. I tossed out little tidbits of insight the way only someone in their early twenties can do without feeling satirical.

By contrast, if you look at my “social media” profiles now (a term that didn’t even exist back in the heyday of LJ), you might think I don’t actually exist. To a certain extent, that’s true– I have a day job that I have to keep separate from the rest of my life– but it’s also sad. There are geniuses on Twitter and Facebook who can write stories in the space of 140 characters, but I’m not one of them. Being longwinded is one of my many faults. Just ask my editor.

And lately I’ve started to realize that there’s no heart to my “online presence” anymore (that’s another term I hate). I don’t talk to my fellow readers, and writers, and mayhem-makers. I retweet their tweets, and I plug their sites, and I compliment their work, but we don’t have conversations like we used to: all those late night comment threads that went on until they were nested on the righthand side of the page.

I spend more time thinking about where to post a blog entry (Tumblr? LiveJournal? Which one will get more hits?) than I do about the entry itself. And when I do get around to writing it, I’ve got all these terms in my head that were never there before: terms like “SEO” and “page ranking” that I don’t even fully understand, but that “social media experts” have told me I should care about.

Did you know I was offered a free movie poster by Zazzle because Klout says I’m influential about pasta? True story.

It’s too much, and I’m done.

I realize that doesn’t mean much for you guys. It’s not like I’m headed into a media blackout or planning to disappear from Twitter (my god, Ireland would fall). But I’m cutting the self-knotted puppet strings that make me lie in bed at 1AM, wondering if I should post more content to my Facebook fan page. Because that’s what I’m doing instead of writing.

So I guess I’ve given myself a new resolution: to worry less about when and where to say things, and to worry more about what I’m saying. To spend more time sharing myself instead of regurgitated quotes from other people, and to encourage others to do the same. To engage more, listen more, and have conversations that bring all of us closer, because that’s what made me fall in love with the internet in the first place.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll crosspost this to LiveJournal.

I’ve never had stage fright before, not when it comes to public speaking. Put me in a one-on-one conversation or in a small group, and I feel shy, but put me on stage in front of an auditorium, and I’ll enthrall you for hours.

You’d think I’d be the same way as a writer, but instead, I’m the cowering weirdo in the corner, stumbling over my words, agonizing over each syllable, terrified of making a fool of myself. I’m scared of being a bad writer. I’m afraid that my stories won’t be as beautiful on the page as they are on my head. I’m afraid I can’t do them justice. I’m terrified of failing these marvelous, lovely creations that mean more to me than real life.