I had three friends who suffered from chronic depression. They were almost always depressed. I’ve had trouble with depression myself. But these guys were really depressed.
One of them once told me: “I kept a journal for awhile. It basically went: ‘Monday: I’m depressed. Tuesday: I’m depressed. Wednesday: I’m depressed.’ And it went on like that for several years.”
My other friend once said to me: “I vividly remember EVERY bad thing that ever happened to me going all the way back to kindergarten.” It’s like his mind had this weird editing function that edited out all the good things while emphasizing all the bad things.
And my third friend once said to me while we were having a casual phone conversation: “I just want to let you know I’m sitting here with a loaded gun on my lap and I’m thinking about killing myself.”
The weird thing was: All three of them were good-looking men, in good physical health, with sharp minds, quite intelligent with quick wits. And all sorts of artistic talents. And they all came from fairly stable, and financially prosperous, families. And yet they were miserable virtually all the time. And when they weren’t depressed, depression was never far away. It was like depression stalked them relentlessly. It was hard to figure. I knew many many other people who weren’t nearly as gifted as them, but were perfectly satisfied with their lot in life. It was if the three of them were simply born depressed. They were just wired that way.
All three ended up committing suicide. One jumped in front of a train. One hung himself. And the third, I believe, shot himself.
This life often doesn’t make a lot of sense. You just to figure it out on the fly.