i felt like i could have written myself (in much poorer fashion) this excerpt from a recent Justin EH Smith substack
At many points over the past decades I have managed to convince even myself that I am cured. In fact I had managed to do this for almost twenty years, until the beginning of the pandemic, when the repressed returned with a vengeance. I do not believe that I “came down with depression” at that moment, and I especially hate the French habit of speaking of “une dépression”, as if the condition were as individuable and as temporally bounded as a cold. Just as inadequate is the oft-repeated Churchillian metaphor of depression as “the black dog”. If only it were a black dog, I could just kick the fucking thing away. I do not “have” “a” depression, let alone a depression hounding me in the form of an external malevolent agent. Rather, I am depressed, and certain circumstances make this fact less easy to ignore than others. In the event, the circumstances surely had something to do with the first lockdown of March, 2020, which we endured in Brooklyn, right next to the hospital in Fort Greene where they stored the corpses outside in refrigerated trucks. My own experience of covid was mild in its symptoms, but I emerged from lockdown transformed, physically and psychologically.I will try to describe in a few words what it has been like since then. The most striking thing about this new life is that the whole world looks to me somewhat the way our elementary schools look to us when we revisit them as adults: a place we don’t belong anymore, a place that seems so much smaller and so much more modest than we had once taken it to be, so disenchanted that one is left perplexed as to how it could ever have been the source of such wild flights of the hopeful imagination. Life has a quality now that can only be described as “spectral”. I have sometimes imagined that I must have ended up in one of those refrigerated trucks myself, and everything I’ve experienced since then is just me haunting the old sites of my life, as in the Nicole Kidman vehicle The Others (2001) where she believes her home is infested by poltergeists but slowly comes to realize she and her kids are the ghosts, while the “ghosts” that torment her are just regular human beings.
A second feature of this new “mature” manifestation of depression (as opposed to its “juvenile” expressions in California, New York, Ohio) is what the diagnosticians sometimes call “derealization”. I have moments where I just cannot believe that any of this is real. I used to mock Nick Bostrom’s “simulation hypothesis”; now, most of the time, it seems to me intuitively obvious (if still not for the reasons he thinks) that the world is not at all what we take it to be. This shift manifests itself partly in a collapse of the system of values that had previously enabled me to take seriously all the clamoring after social distinctions —all the prizes and acclaim I used to find it meaningful to seek— that keep our institutions running and our little lives full. But more strongly, at certain moments I find myself literally unable to comprehend how I ever could have taken the social bodies that offer the prizes and acclaim, or indeed the opprobrium and rejection, to be in any sense real.
This derealization surely has something to do with the very real historical process of dematerialization: institutions really are disintegrating as they shift to videoconferencing and e-mail as the primary channels of their endurance. What made universities real for some centuries, for example, were in large part their august edifices. These still exist, generally, but they seem increasingly disconnected from whatever it is we still pretend to be doing under the universitarian banner. Anxiety enables me to keep doing my work under this same banner, but I find myself unable to recall how I once accepted it all, unquestioningly, as real. At its most intense, my incomprehension extends not just to social reality (work, recipes, “sport”, popular entertainments, and most of all politics), but to all reality: I can’t make any sense of what the edifices themselves are supposed to be, or clothes, or utensils. Unlike for Bostrom, most of the time the one thing that does not become “glitchy” for me, does not begin to show signs of its simulated character, is nature. But nature loves to hide, as Heraclitus said, and to have it alone as the one thing that appears real, while suitable for isolated contemplation, is hardly sufficient to provide the experience of community that sustains a properly human life.
A third feature of this mature depression is the way it affects my moral character, no matter how much rhetoric is invested in the idea that it’s “just a disease” like any other. I have already described it is a “disease” that has dishonesty as one of its symptoms. Another symptom is that it makes a person —let’s be frank— a real jerk. In my own case I definitely discern a correlation between the occasional remission of feelings of depression, on the one hand, and my capacity for generosity or big-heartedness on the other. Eric Schwitzgebel has provocatively argued that if you are surrounded by fools, you’re probably a jerk. When I am depressed I tend to conclude from his argument, very much against the grain, that I must be a jerk, because everyone around me is definitely a fool. Schwitzgebel of course means to dispel the idea that others are really fools, by “reducing” their foolishness to a mere effect of the perceiver’s “jerkitude”. But depression militates in favor of a “Copernican revolution” in the new field of jerk theory.
Here is how the foolishness of humanity manifests itself. We have become familiar in the social-media era with the notion of “copypasta”, where people with no real thoughts of their own simply reproduce the language of others, and attempt to pass this off as political engagement, for example regarding the “problematic” character of Disney princesses. But in deep depression, every human utterance sounds like copypasta; everyone sounds as if they are simply channeling the language of others. Proust thus comes to seem a rare and loyal friend to the isolated depressive, when for example his narrator dissects the new phrases and idiosyncracies in the language of Albertine, to discern, in his own internal Académie Française, exactly who she has been seeing since she returned to Paris from Balbec at the end of summer. She thinks she’s just “being herself”, with all that language; he thinks she’s just delivering so much copypasta.
It is terrifying and alienating to apprehend all language in that way, and the easiest reaction is misanthropy. One is wrong, of course, morally wrong, to react in this way, and the Copernican revolution in this case cannot really succeed. It is, as Schwitzgebel claims, jerkitude that gives rise to the appearance of foolishness, and not foolishness that justifies jerkitude. But depression is a strange disease, and we will never be able to adequately deal with it if we pretend it’s just like diabetes or whatever. Depression makes you a jerk. One should not be a jerk. Ergo, if depression is a disease, it is a disease that it is morally wrong to have.