In case you hadn't heard Owen Wilson is sad and tried to kill himself.
This ignited a slew of gossip magazine and entertainment news shows to do some very special reports on the growing number famous folks who are "depressed."
They explained that the high pressures of Hollywood combined with having their private lives exposed and constantly being stalked by paparazzi causes many celebrities to get really depressed.
Wait a second, aren't these the very gossip magazines and entertainment TV shows that expose celebrities private lives and hire paparazzi to stalk them? Do they do it so they can then justify their stupid special reports on celebrity depression?
Oh the sick circle of Hollywood life.
I feel bad for depressed celebs. I feel bad for all depressed people. I feel bad, period.
Shit. I think I'm depressed.
Actually it seems that everyone I know is somewhat depressed.
But are we all happy people that sometimes get depressed, or are we all depressed people trying to be happy?
When is a person's depression a clinical disease and when is it a case of the blues?
I understand there are psychological tests to determine the severity of depression but what I don't understand is why some people can swim out of their funk and some people drown?
Ugh, writing this blog is making me depressed.
Normally I'd insert a smiley face emoticon here to assure my readers and myself that it's all going to be okay, but I don't know that it's all going to be okay. Are we okay? Am I okay?
What depresses me the most is admitting that up until this very obvious and logical news came out that fame and fortune do not equal happiness, I was still sort of hopeful that me making it big also meant me making it out of my depression.
I actually thought and still sort of think that a fabulous TV role and a fabulous writing job leading to a generous salary, a sweet car, a neato apartment, an actual savings account with money in it combined with accolades and admiration from friends, family and fans may possibly be the cure for my internal woes.
I mean it would, could, and should make me way happier than I am right now.
Well because right now I am sitting on my living room floor on a carpet that I have been too "busy' to vacuum in six months. The same six months I have been freelancing aka unemployed.
Subconsciously I think I didn't vacuum on purpose so those tortilla chips crumbs on my rug could serve as a reminder for me to never eat that many nachos again. Never! No mater how delicious the nachos and how lonely the consumer.
It's sunny out so I feel an intolerable guilt for being in my apartment. While my skin has already achieved a color four shades closer to cancer this summer, I still am tempted to abandoned this blog entry and sit outside to soak in more rays. However I can hear my neighbor talking to her dog and should I make myself visible I am most certain she will turn the conversation to me. Frankly I don't care to discuss the our streets latest potholes or how the "damn trash men" always leave her garbage can covers in her driveway. Honestly I don't want to talk to anyone, as I am too busy being depressed over the fact that I am freelancing aka unemployed.
I am wearing my usual homebody uniform of sweat pants, an old t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie. I look as though I may go work out. If I do go workout it'll only be so I can justify another possible nacho party.
(Note: Up until this paragraph I have paused to check my email 24 times just in case someone was writing to offer me a fancy big paying gig)
And so it goes. This happens to me every time I am freelancing aka unemployed. I start off my self-employment adventure overjoyed at all the free time I have to work on my scripts, book proposals, business plans and even a few home-improvement projects! Heck maybe I'll even do a juice cleanse and finally stick to my goal of doing yoga every morning. I wake up early, embracing the day and as I enjoy the fresh brewed coffee and a delicious goat cheese and avocado omelet I just made. I revel in picking and choosing just how and when I will make money, accepting or declining various writing assignments, comedy shows, copywriting gigs, random odd jobs. I can work when I want to work and use my self-imposed free time to be a creative, productive, and hopeful artist!
Then after about a month or so I hit a wall.
My free time is eaten up by thoughts of feeling like a complete loser because lately no cool gigs are being offered.
I can't justify working on scripts, book proposals, business plans or home improvement projects when I really should be working, as in a real job or something.
Screw yoga, I don't deserve to relax. Relax from what? Being a loser? If I need to feel Zen I'll go to happy hour. Forget it, I can't even afford to go to happy hour so I'm left sneaking a bottle of wine out of my parents basement.
Instead of picking choosing jobs and being a hopeful artist, I am desperately hoping that one of the 20 focus groups I applied to be in will pick and choose me to answer questions about cereal for $75 an hour.
No juice cleanse, no fresh brewed coffee, no omelet, all I want are those nachos I mentioned earlier.
Ironically some of my best creative work comes when I am down in the dumps. Part of me was terrified to start seeing a therapist because I was afraid it would cause my comedy to suffer. I mean, so much humor comes from pain. Like many comedians, I am sad little happy-clown.
I just got a visual of circus clowns riding tricycles while crying. Their tears wash off all that clown makeup revealing hideously twisted faces. No wonder so many kids are terrified of clowns. They see the truth behind the masks. Oh God, I sound like a really bad café slam poet. Maybe therapy is affecting my comedy.
Damn, I just got even more depressed.
Perhaps my father has it right, he works so much he doesn't have time to get depressed. His 'I'll retire when I'm dead" mentality has kept him rich and busy, so busy in fact he doesn't have anytime to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He's so busy he's doesn't have time to even get sad that he doesn't have time to enjoy the fruits of his labor. I would never use the term struggling artist around him because I know what he'd say: "Struggling? Well who the hell told you to struggle and do art? Why don't you get a nice job in bank like your cousin?"
Days like today I wonder the very same thing. Why don't Owen and I get nice jobs in banks like my cousin? Not that bank tellers don't get depressed or struggle. I'm sure bank tellers get very depressed being around all that money that isn't theirs. Or maybe they're very happy, who knows?
I do know that this blog entry is getting rather long and that I'd prefer to save the rest of my thoughts on depression for my therapy session tomorrow.
So whether you are a happy person that sometimes get depressed, or are a depressed person trying to be happy, I hope you are a person that feels a little bit better after reading this silly sad girls blog. I know I feel a little bit better after writing it.
Maybe not better enough for a smiley emoticon, but enough that instead of trying to kill myself I changed out of my sweatpants into a sundress.
Oh, I guess I feel a little bit better than I thought.
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