Even when my fucking parents died in 1998 and I had an actual thing I could point to as a source of my unrelenting depression, a cause to substantiate the effect of my simmering hatred, I played it off. I don’t know if it feels like this for anyone else, but I definitely come from the kind of people whose response to “Hey, man, I’m pretty bummed out” is “Shut up, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Or how about “You just sleep all the time because you’re lazy.” Like, if it isn’t broken or hemorrhaging, you need to bury it under these dollar-store snack foods and work it out by your fucking self.
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