There is an aspect of depression that I think is common to everyone who goes through it. 

Depression subtracts. It takes away. And in doing so it leaves the person looking backward, obsessing on what is perceived as loss.

I “was” an actor. I “was” a comic. I “was” a writer. I “was” a musician. 

There are many things I “was”, and in my current state I can only look at them as faint memories. Getting back to any of them seems impossible, and in a few cases undesirable.

When you spend, as I do, an inordinate amount of time looking backward, there is no forward. And there is no concept of who I am now.

My experience is not common. I know an inordinate amount of people who have been able to do the thing they set out to do. I found myself surrounded by the exception rather than the rule. 

My father is an artist, and an artist is what he does. His identity and what he does for a living are the same. This is extremely rare, yet I know an overwhelming amount of people, due to my personal circumstance, who fit that model. I can’t turn on the TV without seeing someone I know. It’s a constant reminder of the parade I watched pass by, that I expected to be part of. 

But not everyone can be in the parade. Most of us are spectators.

It did not happen for me. And it will not. The lion share of my depression is rooted in my failure to accept that, and subsequently my failure to see any coherent current identity.

 I have been fortunate enough to make my living as each of those things I used to be. I was, temporarily, an actor, a comic, a writer, a musician…hell, my first job was as a puppeteer. But those all ended, and there was no more. 

I was taught, as we all were, that if you pursue what you love you will be a success. I believed that to be true, and the formula for a life. The American Dream.

It is very rare. The vast majority of people do not live like that, and I am one of the vast majority. They sell bits of their lives to others in exchange for the ability to live a life for the remainder of their waking hours. Their identity is not linked to what they do for a living. Their identity exists in spite of it. That is an amazing thing to me. 

Stop telling the lie of the American Dream. Not every kid can grow up to be president. That is a lie, and it comes with the bizarre implication that a failure to do so is a lack of effort. You didn’t want it enough. It’s your fault.

That’s bullshit. Kid, you didn’t become president because it’s only happened to forty-four people in the entire history of this country.

I am not an actor, a comic, a writer, a musician…hell, a puppeteer, because the majority of people who want these things with all their heart don’t get them.

And I still blame myself. You know. Because American Dream.