John Moe - The Hilarious World of Depression

It was summer outside, bright and humid, and I was inside, sitting in a big poofy chair, ready to get into it with a new therapist.

Ill probably make jokes, I said to begin our first appointment. Its part of the way I talk. I like to make jokes about grim and grisly stuff as a way of facing it. The jokes, the laughs, thats oxygen for me. Maybe its deflection. Im not sure. I dont think so. You tell me.

Okay, Julie said.

This was the intake session, where you tell the therapist your story and include descriptions of family of origin, traumas, any occurrence of mental illness on your family tree, current life, health habits, and the reason you made the appointment that put you in the poofy chair.

Ive been depressed my whole life, but I only found out about twelve years ago. Ive been kind of faking my way through since childhood. Ive managed to stop getting worse. I want to be better.

Well, lets see if we can do something about that, said Julie. I liked her. Finding a therapist is a bit like dating. You might have to have some very boring or weird or tense meetings before you find someone you connect with. I was fortunate that this felt good right away. For various reasons, I had mostly had short-term relationships with therapists in the past. Just flings. Even a few one-session stands. I had never been able to make much of a commitment. My mind was a wild stallion that demanded to run free.

I continued, I have to say, though, I have a lot of reasons to think this wont work. And, yes, I know that might be the depression talking, but its also the only evidence Ive got. Its never gotten better before, really, so how could it? But yes, Im ready to try. I hope it works. I doubt it will.

Julie was a bit younger than me but old enough to have lived a life; she had probably experienced hardship, probably had someone close to her die, so I felt like she would know what I was talking about. She was cheerful but reserved, reminding me of someone I might have known in college who was in a sorority but also kind of knew how silly sororities were.

Whats really, I guess, dumb? About this? Is that Ive got this show I host. Its a podcast about depression, so I spend all day at work thinking about this stuff and a lot of time outside work talking about this stuff. I travel places to give speeches about this stuff. Right now, Im working on a book about this stuff, too. But it all came out of this podcast.

I know the podcast well, she said. You emailed me about it, but I already knew it.

I had emailed her but figured she wouldnt read the email or remember it if she had because Im dumb and worthless and everyone hates me. This didnt make me sad; its the way I understood the world to be.

I kept talking, like I do. But the thing about that show is that its mostly about other peoples depression. I feel like I understand other peoples depression pretty well, actually. I can quickly figure out what their issues are and draw information and stories out of them. Make connections they hadnt thought of. The thing is, I dont know what is going on with me. Its hard to see a skyscraper from inside the skyscraper.

My first appointment with Julie took place after two full seasons of The Hilarious World of Depression. By the time I talked to her, I had conducted a couple of years worth of deep and lengthy interviews with comedians, musicians, and writers who had dealt with clinical depression, or Clinny D as we had taken to calling it on the show. Id also spent a lot of time with my public radio colleagues discussing those interviews and how best to present them in order to inform, enlighten, and entertain our audience. This moment, here with Julie, was really the first time I had attempted to do anything to improve my own mental health, which had ranged from getting by to disastrous for most of my life. I had spent years exhorting people to get help and to believe that they could get better while never believing that about myself.