I Became an Adult and All I Got Was This Depression

A couple of months ago, I came across a screenshot of a YouTube video with “Sadness is Self Obsession” in its thumbnail. 

Apparently it had gone viral on twitter and everybody had a strong opinion on it. What struck me initially was how shocked people seemed to be at the blunt statement, but it was one I had heard several times before. The first time was when my parents repeatedly said something similar to me as a child. It’s funny how age-old beliefs just get repackaged into different languages and are presented as original. When my parents said “This depression stuff isn’t real, just choose to be happy” it somehow felt kinder than “sadness is self obsession” which sounds so intentionally mean. 

The second time I can remember hearing this advice was when it was brought up during a conversation on a now cancelled podcast I used to listen to during an edgy adolescent phase of my life. The podcasters were discussing the Me Too movement, and took issue with the narratives it was producing at the time. Saying something along the lines of “The story of your assault isn’t as groundbreaking as you think it is.” 

At the time it felt like exactly what I needed to hear. I had become obsessed with the damage being assaulted throughout the course of my childhood had caused me. I spent most of my teenage years and early adulthood analyzing all the different ways the incident shaped me as a person. I felt emboldened in clutching to this pain after the rise of the Me Too movement, fantasizing about having my own story being published and consumed by millions of people, finally being seen for the most perfect victim that I am. 

The simple idea that people might still not give a shit about “my story” was revolutionary to me. It woke me up to the fact that I actually needed to have other things going for me other than being a victim, and all this psychoanalyzing should be a step towards moving on from the worst thing that happened to me instead of letting it become Me. 

The third time this sentiment came up, was within my college friend group, wherein everyone seemed way more well adjusted than me, and I often felt like a poser. I still don’t fully understand why that was, maybe because I was the only foreigner in a group of Americans, but that’s like my first read of the situation. 

Anyway, the thumbnail message seemed to be an important belief to them all. Sadness. Is. Self. Obsession. 

And I internalized that thought. Now that I was part of a well-adjusted adult group. I would never burden anyone else with my pain, and judged the people who did it to me. It was a guilty pleasure to privately admit amongst ourselves that I thought some people would self-deprecate in a way that seemed to expressly be for attention, or that some people just really enjoyed talking about themselves endlessly under the guise of “speaking their truth”. Everyone was too self serious and performative, and we were the only ones navigating it all correctly. 

I would revel in these dish sessions, hinged on the fact that one day we will all shed our outward personas and open up to each other about our deepest darkest feelings and talk about our sadness in an appropriate adult manner. 

But then, it never happened. After two years of knowing them, I had not shared anything remotely substantial about my life with them. 

I had casually mentioned some of the things that still haunt me here and there and the response I got was casual too. A sympathetic look, a general “I’m so sorry that happened.” Or even an offer to laugh it off together, but not in a way that would bring us closer together, but in a way that would move the conversation along to escape the vulnerability. 

I started to think that the goal of adulthood was to never be sad. Well, not too much. Depressing information is to be communicated in a humorous and quirky way, so that people know not to take it seriously. Sadness is a script to perform, like a clown, not an emotion you could dwell on publicly. 

I keep replaying these moments in my head, moments as an adult when I was vulnerable. I keep thinking of what I could have said differently, to effectively communicate the extent of my pain, to warrant a reaction that felt genuinely comforting, or to encourage the other person to shed their exterior as well, constantly craving a moment of mutual understanding. 

I guess that is self-obsession. As much as it feels like it’s not under my control, that excuse holds less and less value as you grow older. I have tried to be a good grown-up and will my brain into not being sad many times to no avail. And maybe one day I’ll get a psychiatrist who recommends just the right dosage to numb me, and possibly even start to make me feel happy, and I won’t agonize over what lies beyond small talk, but until then I think I’m going to grip my mask harder, and conceal my vanity.