This post deals with some sensitive, vulnerable stuff. I don’t think it’s especially grim, but still feels appropriate to let you know in case you’re not in a place for engaging with stuff like that. Thanks, as always, for reading.
When I was in college, we had this capstone course: CGT411/450. If you didn’t pass it, you didn’t get a diploma, even if you’d aced all your other courses. It was a massive thing that we were told about and started preparing for back in CGT101. It started off with us choosing some kind of project that would implement everything we’d learned in our major. The projects were sponsored by other Purdue professors or alumni but some of them were proposed by local businesses or other industry professionals Professor Burton knew. In addition to completing the project, we had to conduct grad-school style research and write an honest-to-God research paper that we’d actually submit to the Purdue faculty review board. At the end of the semester, we’d present all of it to our “clients,” professors, and peers.
But on top of all that, we had to run our 3-5 person teams as startup businesses, complete with a virtual stock market where we could “invest” in each other’s projects. We were given a few thousand “Cogent” as underclassman that we could use to buy stocks in these capstone projects whose share values were set by Professor Burton. We could earn it in various ways by doing odd jobs for professors or upperclassmen, and Professor Burton would award us big bundles of it as we completed various milestones. At the end of the semester, if the share price had improved, you pocketed the profits. The more Cogent you had by the time you completed 411/450, the better your grade would be.
Looking back, it’s one of my favorite things I did in college. I learned a ton and enjoyed the various challenges. I acquired an important life skill: how to trauma bond with your teammates at 2am when you have a 6am deadline with 8 hours of work left to complete. How to get the impossible done.
At the time, though, it was a lot of pressure. It was a lot to juggle generally speaking, and even harder balanced against my job on the football team, my role in various clubs, attempting to date someone, and otherwise trying to stay sane.
It was the first time I started to understand what depression really was.
I remember calling my mom one night. I was sitting in my closet in the dark, hiding under my winter coat. “I’m not okay, Mom.”
I’d been afraid to admit it because “not being okay” wasn’t okay to me. I didn’t want her to, well, mother me. But I remember the sense of relief I felt when I finally allowed myself to say the words.
Mom handled it gracefully. “Maybe there’s someone to talk to on campus. A therapist? Maybe you ought to do that?”
Therapy! Therapy was for crazy people. I wasn’t crazy! I was just stressed. I needed to pass this class. I wanted to get an A in it, sure, but I told myself I just needed a D and maybe that was too much (Author note: no, I needed the A just as badly as the diploma). I’d get over it.
Mom’s voice got a little softer. “You aren’t thinking of hurting yourself, are you?”
Of course not, my instant reply. But in the back of my mind, I could see how someone would want to if they were feeling this oppressive unhappiness and fear I was feeling.
But that wasn’t me. I was happy! A good student. Smart. Helpful. Loved. Never ever would I dream of hurting myself.
Yet…I could think of a few people who had had all those exact same words spoken about them, who ended up taking too many pills, or jumping, or tying a noose….
I did explain to mom that it was just stress. Talking to her helped a lot. I promised I’d get some sleep and things would be better tomorrow, after we submitted our first draft of our research paper. But the seed had been planted: maybe I really ought to see a therapist after all.
My group didn’t just pass the class: we, pardon me for saying it like this, fucking slayed it. We were awarded best project[1], best presentation, and best pitch by our peers; the first time in the history of the class any group had gotten three distinctions at the end of the semester. Presumably, there’s still a plaque in Knoy Hall with our names on it three times. It’s among my proudest achievements; second I think, only to watching my stepson (who found multiplication hopelessly impossible) get a 100 on his math test in second grade.
I remember standing with my groupmates in our blue and orange Hawaiian shirts[2], basking in the relief of completing our final presentation. We’d spent days rehearsing and cross-examining each other, trying to think of every possible gotcha question we could be asked. After the actual Q&A, Burton had rewarded us with a cool grin and “guys, that was extraordinary.” He was a hard man to impress, and his public approval was a reward in and of itself.
Amidst my triumphant feelings though, I thought about how silly I had been for hiding in my closet and calling my Mommy. What had I been so worried about! Look how great we did! You were stressing over nothing, I mocked myself.
Except, some tiny voice that only I could hear over the buzz of joyful conversation said. Except you weren’t just feeling stressed. You were feeling unworthy, brother. I was too jubilant to engage with these thoughts and dismissed them; but I remember them being there with me even as I celebrated.
I know it probably seems like I’ve written all this to brag. I am proud of my accomplishment; probably even more so of putting in the requisite effort to achieve it.
But folks, the pride is nothing to the Shadow Man.
In the spring of 2015, I had taken my partner out to dinner and was driving her home. I reached up to press the button on the garage door opener. She grabbed my hand to stop me. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing was wrong. What was she talking about.
“You aren’t yourself, you don’t talk to me anymore. You are very unhappy. So what’s wrong?” I could see the worry in her eyes.
Work stress (there’s that word again, huh?), I explained. I worked in pharmaceutical marketing and would often spend late hours trying to get our websites past legal review. Sometimes I’d spend up to 60 hours in the office. I was often exhausted when I spent time with her, which explained her feelings. Right?
She pressed me, though. It was an all-the-time thing. Either my relationship with my job was very unhealthy (it was) or perhaps I was actually depressed (spoiler: I was). “You should talk to someone.” She was a nurse with a local health network and knew one of the offices a few minutes drive employed therapists. “Some people just have brain chemistry that needs a little help. Maybe you need medication.”
I blanched. I still thought therapy was an admission of imperfection and therefore defeat (I bet you can see where this is going) and the idea of having to take crazy-pills was similarly galling. But I could see beneath the worry in her eyes a sort of fear that made an alarm bell go off in my mind. I adored this woman, and if I didn’t listen to what she was saying, I was going to lose her. “There’s nothing wrong with it if you go. More people really ought to, honestly. It’s okay to need help.” She was right about that.
I made an appointment that week and have been seeing therapists and taking medication ever since.
The Shadow Man is still here.
I should probably point out I don’t actually see or interact with another entity here; it’s just that, for me, personifying my depression as an external thing helps me rationalize and deal with it. Treating it as its own thing separate from me helps me not feel guilty about it. That’s a thing with depression; it makes you feel broken, which makes you feel guilty for being broken, which makes you feel bad about being guilty about yourself…which makes you feel broken. So you spiral.
The Shadow Man is just the way I imagine the voice inside my head that says I’m not good enough, will never be good enough. That, sure, lots of people like me, but will never love me. That even though I have a mountain of evidence that shows I won’t fail when I put in the effort, I’m still gonna fail at everything I set out to do. He’s here with me now as I write this, whispering and smiling and tipping his big hat. I have learned to live with him and can ignore him most days, sometimes treating him like an old friend. Sometimes I can even laugh at him, because joking about something you fear takes away its power. Therapy has helped develop these strategies. Medication helps too.
I’m writing this because I think most people have no idea I live with this. Most people probably see me as a happy-go-lucky jokester. Sometimes they my catch me on a down day, sure, but they don’t realize that underneath my stupid puns and goofy impressions, I’m constantly shadow boxing. Some may wonder: what do you have to be so depressed about? You’ve been an excellent student! Had a successful career and have been reasonably healthy! You’ve written a novel that you’d gotten published! You have both of your parents! You’re a cis-gendered white male in the United States! You don’t get much privileged than that!
I’ve had the conversation with myself too.
Thing is though: Shadow Man doesn’t care[3]. He’ll look at all that and say: ha ha ha, you don’t deserve any of that do you? What a joke! What a fluke! You got lucky!
It’s hard. It’s illogical. It’s exhausting. Embarrassing. Shameful.
But you know what helps? Talking about it, so I am. Putting these words down means I accept it, and by accepting it, I have some control over it. Shadow Man is mocking me for this as platitudinous tripe. But, today at least, he can go kick rocks.
There’s nothing wrong with seeing a therapist, for taking a medication. For seeking help. Give yourself permission. If you want to talk to a friend or if we’re not friends yet, please feel free to reach out. I’ll never back away from someone who needs an ear. I know what kind of courage it takes to admit it to yourself, let alone speak it. Even though shadow boxing is a solo activity, you don’t have to do it alone.
The shadow is there because you stand in the light; it needs you in order to exist. Maybe that’ll help you remember who’s actually in control in the fight.
We found a statistically significant effect on engagement with the site when we added social features. It seems like an obvious conclusion now that the entire Internet seems to be dominated by social platforms, but in 2009 it was amazing to see that the kids spent triple the time on our little site if they could use it to goof off with their friends.
-
We had teamed up with an Indianapolis based youth group who wanted to do something with social media to liven up their program. We ended up building them a rudimentary Facebook clone, and made our research project an exploration of how adding social media features to an otherwise “brochure style” site affected the engagement of the target audience. We employed eye-tracking and heat-mapping software in the University accessibility lab and invited a class of local middle schoolers to interact with two versions of the site. We then asked them a series of questions about the different experiences and used our analytics to build our report. ↩
-
We named our fake consultancy “Aloha Creative Group” or AlohaCG for short. Our company colors were blue and orange. We had hibiscus themed business cards, wore blue and orange Aloha shirts and even passed out leis for some presentations. Burton loved it. ↩
-
This is going to sound crazy, but the Marvel movie Thunderbolts actually deals with depression and even depicts it as a shadowy man. It really resonated with me and made me feel seen because of this. Suppose I’m not the only one who uses it as a metaphor. ↩