No Depression/Depression

Fear the hearts of men are failing
For these are latter days we know
The Great Depression now is spreading
God's word declared it would be so

I'm going where there's no Depression
To a better land that's free from care
I'll leave this world of toil and trouble
My home's in heaven
I'm going there

In this dark hour, midnight nearing
The tribulation time will come
The storms will hurl the midnight fear
And sweep lost millions to their doom

I'm going where there's no Depression
To a better land that's free from care
I'll leave this world of toil and trouble
My home's in heaven
I'm going there
-- A.P. Carter by way of Uncle Tupelo, "No Depression"

I said I would only write about music. So I'll try to write about music. Uncle Tupelo's No Depression is a fabulous album. It spawned a very fine music magazine of the same name and a musical genre/movement of the same name. You should own this album.

So there. That's No Depression. Now let me tell you about depression.

Depression is finding yourself in tears in the middle of the workday, and concerned co-workers wondering what's wrong with you, and you passing off your red eyes as something caused by allergies -- allergies being particularly problematic when it's December and 20 degrees and every spore-bearing plant and microorganism is dead. Sure. Why are you in tears? God only knows why. You certainly don't.

Depression is waking up at 3:00 a.m. in a panic. It's letting the waves of fear wash over you, and having no idea where they come from. Why are you afraid? You have a wife who loves you, and kids who love you, and who are wonderful near-adults now, and a good, challenging-but-not-overwelming job that more than pays the bills, and a boss who thinks you're the bees knees, and a fun hobby/second job that lets you spout off your opinions and get paid for doing so, and friends, and a great church with a great pastor who loves you, and new albums from Anathallo and Eleni Mandell to make you very, very happy. What the hell are you afraid of? God knows. You don't know.

Depression is thinking about all the books you might have written -- great books, too, the ones that would have been read in college classrooms a hundred years from now -- but didn't because you're too depressed to write for any sustained length of time. It's looking back on all the fucking waste. It's getting bummed out because you're bummed out all the time. It's a vicious cycle. It comes around every year about this time, when it's dark when you leave for work and dark when you leave work and most dark when you just want to hoist your middle finger to everybody who tells you to just buck up and count your blessings. Fuck you. What do you know or understand about any of this?

If you're me, here's how you cope: you escape. You escape in a book or an album, or, when you're feeling particularly frisky and counter-cultural, through more illegal means. You know why? Because it works. For a while, and after a fashion, you don't feel depressed. And then you come to your senses, usually against your will, kicking and screaming into the harsh light, and figure out that your wife is pissed off at you, that you've deeply hurt people who care about you, and that you're making a mockery of what you claim to believe and who you claim to be.

And if you're at all cognizant, you also recognize that God is involved in this process, sometimes miraculously, spectacularly, and painfully involved.

Figure it out. I certainly can't seem to do so. Welcome to the world of Andrew J. Whitman, Christian Asshole.