Here’s a hard truth: I haven’t been happy in a long time.

I’ve been seeking therapy for the past few weeks. Unfortunately, no one has called me back. Welcome to the crisis that is mental health.

Since I can’t talk about my feelings with a therapist just yet, I’m going to vomit them on all of you instead. You’re welcome.

The next sentence I’m going to write is going to be harder for me to type than it is going to be for you to hear:

I haven’t been happy for a long time.

Have I experienced moments of parental joy? Of course. Have there been moments of individual contentment? Sure thing. Am I excited about the future? Absolutely not.

And it’s that last question — and answer — that says it all.

I may not be clinically depressed, but I’m certainly feeling versions of it.

I don’t have anything in my life that I’m looking forward to. I don’t wake up excited to experience the day, and all that it has to offer.

This is where the tragedy of our healthcare system reveals itself.

Here I am. A white middle-class male. Someone who makes $90,000 a year. And yet I’m that same someone who can’t find a fucking therapist. Like, are you fucking serious?