I am prone to depression. In the past, I’d blamed this on genetics, but now I blame society. More specifically, the media. To really put a finger on it: commercials.
Back in 2013, we’d gotten rid of our satellite dish because it was an unnecessary expense, and we needed to slash those. We happily survived for a few years with NetFlix streaming and renting movies from the library, but this fall, we decided to indulge and subscribe to Sling TV. This was done out of necessity: between Facebook and general news reporting on what’s important in the world, we were worried that even if we stayed offline on Sunday nights, the morning DJ on the radio would give spoilers from each week’s episode of The Walking Dead. (Last Monday, 96.5 TIC started their hourly news update with “A shooting in Hartford last night left two dead, much like Negan’s bat on Walking Dead!”) You know. Priorities.
But with this subscription came a new issue: for the first time in three years, I was exposed to commercials again. And with that, my will to live slowly got sucked away.
I didn’t make the connection at first. I figured it was both my recent change in worksite and the onset of October that had me in a funk. Every Monday morning, I woke up feeling hopeless, useless, and unloved. Unworthy. Stressed. But maybe everyone felt this way on Monday. I trudged through my week, and sure, by Friday, I’d usually perked up some. But then, Sunday night, I’d be smothered by that black cloud of despair again.
It was my dentist who figured it out.
I like my dentist. He has a fabulous, twisted, dark sense of humor. (Once, when trying to sell me on a cosmetic fix to a crooked tooth, he tried to persuade me by saying, “This veneer would really help me if I’m called in to identify your remains when the killer clowns get you.” Sold!) I went in for my six-month cleaning, and he immediately found a chipped filling.
“You been eating granola?” No. “Dog kibble?” No. “You been watching live television?”
Why yes, I had.
“Lots of Christmas commercials? Political ads? Cleaning products?”
Yes, yes, and yes. But he knew already. “You just chipped another filling when I mentioned Christmas ads. You really need to stop grinding your teeth. I’m going to fit you for a new mouth guard. Ted Bundy had one, you know.” (Seriously, I love this guy.)
As he drilled, he treated me to a free hour of psychotherapy. “You’re being barraged with messages that your house isn’t clean enough, your candidate isn’t good enough, and you’re not spending enough at the holidays. Of course you’re depressed. You need to turn off the television ASAP. Your mental health requires it.” He sent me on my way with a shiny new porcelain filling and a copy of Bloodsucking Fiends by Christopher Moore to cheer me up.
The following Sunday night, I shut myself in my office to read while Walking Dead aired. Sure, I missed the important character introduction of Ezekiel and his tiger, but I also wasn’t exposed to ads telling me my teeth weren’t white enough, or that I didn’t love my cats if I didn’t feed them Iams. Not once did I hear Christmas music.
I slept like a baby that night.
Back in 2013, we’d gotten rid of our satellite dish because it was an unnecessary expense, and we needed to slash those. We happily survived for a few years with NetFlix streaming and renting movies from the library, but this fall, we decided to indulge and subscribe to Sling TV. This was done out of necessity: between Facebook and general news reporting on what’s important in the world, we were worried that even if we stayed offline on Sunday nights, the morning DJ on the radio would give spoilers from each week’s episode of The Walking Dead. (Last Monday, 96.5 TIC started their hourly news update with “A shooting in Hartford last night left two dead, much like Negan’s bat on Walking Dead!”) You know. Priorities.
But with this subscription came a new issue: for the first time in three years, I was exposed to commercials again. And with that, my will to live slowly got sucked away.
I didn’t make the connection at first. I figured it was both my recent change in worksite and the onset of October that had me in a funk. Every Monday morning, I woke up feeling hopeless, useless, and unloved. Unworthy. Stressed. But maybe everyone felt this way on Monday. I trudged through my week, and sure, by Friday, I’d usually perked up some. But then, Sunday night, I’d be smothered by that black cloud of despair again.
It was my dentist who figured it out.
I like my dentist. He has a fabulous, twisted, dark sense of humor. (Once, when trying to sell me on a cosmetic fix to a crooked tooth, he tried to persuade me by saying, “This veneer would really help me if I’m called in to identify your remains when the killer clowns get you.” Sold!) I went in for my six-month cleaning, and he immediately found a chipped filling.
“You been eating granola?” No. “Dog kibble?” No. “You been watching live television?”
Why yes, I had.
“Lots of Christmas commercials? Political ads? Cleaning products?”
Yes, yes, and yes. But he knew already. “You just chipped another filling when I mentioned Christmas ads. You really need to stop grinding your teeth. I’m going to fit you for a new mouth guard. Ted Bundy had one, you know.” (Seriously, I love this guy.)
As he drilled, he treated me to a free hour of psychotherapy. “You’re being barraged with messages that your house isn’t clean enough, your candidate isn’t good enough, and you’re not spending enough at the holidays. Of course you’re depressed. You need to turn off the television ASAP. Your mental health requires it.” He sent me on my way with a shiny new porcelain filling and a copy of Bloodsucking Fiends by Christopher Moore to cheer me up.
The following Sunday night, I shut myself in my office to read while Walking Dead aired. Sure, I missed the important character introduction of Ezekiel and his tiger, but I also wasn’t exposed to ads telling me my teeth weren’t white enough, or that I didn’t love my cats if I didn’t feed them Iams. Not once did I hear Christmas music.
I slept like a baby that night.
It is TOO DAMN EARLY, Target!
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