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Come As You Are — Depression, Anxiety, Suicide And All | DADDING DEPRESSED

“Quit biting your nails,” my wife said, taking her eyes off the road to glance at me squirming in the passenger seat. “I need you to be strong for this.”

We were headed to a get-together for her work. The invitation read, “come as you are,” but the event was in the nice neighborhood. Good thing I actually showered that day, put on underwear, and adorned my legs with something other than sweatpants. I dressed casually but not too casual, trying to attain a look that communicated, “I’m relaxed, confident, and I didn’t just put clothes on for the sake of this party.”

Which I had.

Big-whigs, counts, and duchesses mingled together in one of their homes. It was a shoe-shining event for potential donors. I figured, if nothing else, I at least had one point of connection and an awful joke. Sipping on a Cabernet and teasing my baklava, I imagined conversing in a snotty voice with a hint of a British accent, “Yes, yes. I’m a donor as well. Organ donor.” The room would erupt in awkward paid laughter.

Apart from letting social-anxiety mark me like a spaghetti stain, my biggest concern wasn’t being asked what I did for work; it was being asked the questions that would certainly come after.


Originally published at on May 30, 2017.