My Battle With E.D.S.
Today I am taking the brave step of publicly announcing my long battle with E.D.S. (Email Depression Syndrome) so that I may exploit it for purposes of another Medium article.
I applaud my courage.
This crushing disorder is brought on by disturbing junk email which eerily knows specific personal details about you — emotionally, psychologically and biologically. The ensuing emails intuitively gnaw away at your self-confidence, self-esteem and self-image in a most destructive manner, all for the sole purpose of selling you something. The triggering subjects vary depending on the person and usually include gender, body type, education level, relationship status, occupation and/or financial standing. In my case, the trigger was age.
Coping with E.D.S.
When I was younger and first began this whole email juggernaut some 20 years ago, the junk mail I received was sexual in nature. Here are two authentic content samples from then which I saved for just such an occasion as this…
While the meaning behind these advertisements seemingly insinuates sexual inadequacy, there are three important, positive things to note:
- The ads at least presuppose that I, as a penis packing member of the male gender, am indeed having sex.
- This sex is associated with attractive, young women.
- Possibly I am having so much sex that my penis plum tuckered out and now reinforcements must be called in.
All in all, not bad.
I must admit, receiving these emails gave me a modest amount of elation. It was as if someone out there in email-land had complied an astonishingly accurate profile of my age, interests, and activities — likely by tracing data from my internet journeys — and concluded I was commuting daily across the Tappan Zee Ass Bridge and they had my back (or front, or side, depending).
All went well like this for nearly two decades. My ego was stroked knowing the marketing profile I had been assigned was that of a sexually active man who, although perhaps sometimes limping across the finish line, was nevertheless in the race.
The Disorder Deepens
It was sometime decades later that the sexy emails abruptly ended and were unceremoniously replaced by a new topic, one that no longer left me feeling so good about myself.
In fact, something independent of the emails had just occurred in my life that had already caused a slow stirring of personal doubt. These new emails innately knew to feed off my newfound insecurities and the psychological savagery with which the subject lines attacked me only exacerbated my increasingly fragile nature.
What happened?
I turned 50 years old.
Now my inbox ballooned with the likes of these emails…
The American Association of Retired Persons?!?! Senior citizens discounts?! What the hell? I’m only 50! What happened to the sexual conquest-ador me? Now it’s the decrepit, bargain-hunting me. Oh, there were still women in the ads but now they were grayer and with more wrinkles — like me.
Oh, God. I’m old!
I immediately performed psychological triage on myself.
It’s only 50…Technically I’m not a senior citizen for another 10 to 15 years — no matter what those AARP bastards send me. Fuck them! Besides, I can’t get the really good senior perks — 10% off at Burger King, The Sizzler’s “Honored Guest Menu,” Krispy Kreme 10% Senior Discount and those special seats on the bus — until I’m in my 60s. God and Baby Jesus, all the discounts are to fatten me up and make me take the bus rather than drive (because I’m so old, my dulled senses and delayed reflexes will cause an accident).
You know how when you decide to purchase a particular new car, you begin seeing that car everywhere? Were those cars always there and you just never noticed them because you weren’t thinking about them? OR did you psychically will them to appear by your intense focus and concentration on them? The same thing was happening to me every time I looked in the mirror. I saw more gray hairs, more wrinkles and more age spots. Goddamn, I look old!
It was then the depression set it.
Deeper Into Desolation
A few years passed. The “e” in “email” now meant “elderly.” The steady flow of elderly-mails fed my melancholy, making it gloomier by the day. The dark-colored glasses through which I now saw my life were prescription bifocals.
Word must’ve got out about my senescence because the elderly-mails not only continued but they increased in volume. Every single one had the central theme of an impending economic caducity cataclysm. The food discounts were joined by hearing aid deals and cane/walker bargains. Then, just when I thought the attack on the aged could not possibly get worse, it hit rock bottom: adult disposable diapers.
I sank deeper into my depression.
All these elderly-mails painted a picture of me as a fat, deaf, gimpy quinquagenarian, shitting and pissing my pants. Lovely.
Oh, what I would’ve given for just one of those past Viagra or Cialis spam mails with the comely nymphet beckoning me to pop one more boner pill — damn the sexist, gender-conforming offensiveness of my longing!
But you know what they say: Be careful what you wish for…
My deep dive into despondency over the long-lost Lothario I never actually was blinded me. I thought I had hit rock bottom but I was wrong. The lowest was yet to arrive in my inbox — but with a twist I never saw coming…
ELDERLY ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION?!?!? C’mon! Really?! Now the sexually humiliating emails they’re sending me have old guys in them! What’s the upshot in that?
By the hammer of Thor, it’s one thing to have erectile dysfunction. And it’s another thing to be old. But it’s a whole new thing to be erectilely dysfunctional because you’re old! And to add insult to impotence, they’re also impugning my sex drive. Please God — kill me now!
There is Hope…
Okay…I need to get a hold of myself (even though that won’t do any good). This calls for perspective. The reality is they’re just trying to sell me some pills that’ll defy the laws of gravity for the sole purpose of putting money in their pockets. I don’t need those pills, I was in the Cub Scouts. I know how to make a splint. I’ll be fine.
Yes, there will come a day when I can’t. But that’s life. And life is what I need to focus on here. Living a long, enriching life beyond my geriatric-generated substandard sexual shortcomings.
While my melancholia is something I can’t just shrug off, there is hope. I do have tools to combat my Email Depression Syndrome.
My Road to Recovery
The first thing I did was set filters on my email client to move all emails containing the words “sex,” “erectile,” “dysfunction” “elderly” and “AARP” straight into the trash.
I also limit my time online and strictly monitor where I visit, what I buy, and especially what I search for. I use Qwant because I don’t want to leave any more clues that those e-marketing ghouls can use to target my insecurities.
But most importantly I’ve learned that today is a gift — that’s why it’s called the present. There’s more to life than boners and sexually satisfying women. There’s spending time with friends and family. Cultivating new friendships and rekindling lost ones. There’re places and people to see in this big beautiful world and adventures beyond anything a discount erection can promise. There’re creative passions still to explore and new ones yet to be discovered. And the life I live in my later years can still be filled with youthful exuberance.
I’m blessed that I’m ONLY 57. I still have plenty of time in my life to experience so much more joy and love…even if it’s not erect.
At least that’s what I thought until the other day when I received the following email…
OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!! Come on! Burial insurance?!?! I’M ONLY 57!!!
Then again, they do have a point. I’m not getting any younger. And I’m gonna be a fat, deaf, gimpy 58-year-old, shitting and pissing my pants, suffering from erectile dysfunction. They are right — I am gonna die. We all are. Death is part of life and I haven’t really given much thought to my own demise — until I received this email. Where do I want to be buried? How will I pay for my burial? Do I want a coffin or an urn? I really should know this stuff — people close to me should know this stuff. I mean, I could die without a moment’s notice. Just crossing the street WHAM! hit by a car. And look at my genealogy. The Grim Reaper visits my family early and often. My dad died at 54 from cancer — and I just had a polyp removed from my colon. His dad, my grandfather, died at 46 from a stroke — and I have high cholesterol. My mom’s dad, my other grandpa, died at 52 from hypertension — and I have high blood pressure! Jesus Christ, I’m living on borrowed time! At any second the Devil’s gonna call in his chit and cash me out.
God, I’m so depressed.
You know, maybe I should order me up some of those boner pills. Perhaps even join that free trial. It could be a welcome distraction from all my worries. But I better hurry because supplies are limited!
Check out all the other pies I have my fingers in…
© 2021 M. K. Jackson
