i remember working in the harvard square t station selling clothes from a cart. a lonely job it was, rarely sold anything. the pit punks at the top of the escalator threw a trash can down on me once when i was reading the paper. i was so glad to land that job, homeless and depressed, eating doughnuts out of the duncan doughnuts dumpster and leftover chicken the guys from popeye’s would save for me when they closed. i felt so useless. not even worthy of that job. how did i ever dig myself out of that hole? how does that experience inform me now? depression repels people. maybe it scares them. depression is a private, personal hell. since i was not a threat to others, i was allowed to rot on my own, slowly becoming invisible as people turned away. i hid from the friends i had left, ashamed and not wanting to inflict my misery on them. somehow i deserved this and they didn’t. that is how it was. no one would say i was crazy. i was honest. i was not mean. still i became progressively unemployable i think because people were uncomfortable to be around me. even then i could see my peers getting better jobs and progressing in their lives while i remained behind, stuck and broken. depression is a shameful problem. it is seen as a personal weakness rather than a real disability. even if it is seen as a real disability it is creepy- something is wrong with my brain- hard to keep your eye on a brain, hard to understand something you can’t see.

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