Depression and the Extraordinary Influence of an Ordinary TV Show
...and a Vulnerable Farewell Until Spring
*TRIGGER WARNING: In this post, I talk candidly about my experience with alcoholism, eating disorders, child abuse, and suicide ideation.
This post will be my last until 2025.
Every year, I take a Hermit Hibernation, which you can read about in this post, and I spend the winter months living intentionally, focusing on self-care, and writing... a LOT.
During the winter months, however, Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), can set in. It can cause depression that hovers like low, gray clouds, and today I want to encourage everyone to seek something this winter that brings you joy and hang onto it tightly for support and inspiration.
In today’s post, I’m going to share my struggle
with depression and how one ordinary television show helped inspire an extraordinary shift in my battle and subsequent recovery.
First, let’s set some ground rules:
Depression is a mental illness that can affect ANYONE.
Let's remove the stigma around depression and other mental illnesses being shameful and embarrassing.
Let's agree that depression is relative to the individual who is suffering.
Let's dedicate time and attention to researching how we can support those who are suffering...
And understand that depression can trigger suicidal thoughts and behaviors.
Next, why am I posting an article about depression with a cover photo of a super cute Dunder-Mifflin paper box succulent planter? Because The Office played a major role in lifting me out of the darkest period of my entire life, a time when I’d become a full-blown alcoholic and had even contemplated suicide. I want to share my experience with you so that you might find something that brings you joy and hang onto it tightly for support.
If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts and/or ideation, please call 9-8-8 in the United States. For global crisis lines, please click the button below.
I have struggled with depression since I was in Kindergarten.
It started with losing my Granddaddy, who was my favorite person on Earth. He and I shared a special bond and there was nothing I wanted more than to spend time with him. He died of lung cancer in March that year, 1983. My parents were barely in their twenties and struggling to make ends meet.
By March of 1983 I had already attended two different schools and was about to move to a third. At the time, one constant in my life was church. My maternal grandfather, “PawPaw,” was the pastor, and my grandmother, “Meme” (pron. mi-mi), my cousin, Jason, and I sat on the front pew every Sunday. My best friend attended the same church, and I knew that I could escape the sadness I felt around my Granddaddy’s death by sitting beside her in Sunday school. Her name was Karen, and she had a little brother named Adam.
In April, Karen and Adam were riding in the back seat of their family car when they were hit by a drunk driver. Karen and Adam were killed instantly. Losing both my grandfather and my best friend at the same time stole my joy. Moving to another school that same month—my third kindergarten—and having an abusive teacher who hit us over our heads with a rolled-up newspaper, a ruler, her hand, whatever she had within reach, didn’t help matters. But my parents were young, and they didn’t do anything about the abuse.
Throughout elementary and middle school, I was bullied for being chubby. Kids called me “Miss Piggy” and made oinking noises when I walked by. Looking back at my photos, I wasn’t fat at all, I just had a round face and a little girl belly. I still have both, the latter upgraded to a Big Girl belly. My cousin Jason, my grandparents, art, and poetry saved me during those formative years, but by the summer before high school, I was over 200 pounds and miserable.
The summer of 1991, I lost 65 pounds and transformed my body and my attitude; however, keeping the weight off became a battle of starving myself and to the point of passing out. On one occasion, I fell face-first and busted open my chin. Twenty-something stitches later, I had a nice, jagged scar with sutures that looked like a goatee. Those were removed the week before Senior pictures. Of course, the angst was more than I could bear. I was a teenaged girl with identity issues.
During and after high school, in the mid-’90s, my depression grew constant. I was “in the closet” about dating a Black boy, a forbidden notion in my family at the time, especially down here in the South. Insert a shameless plug of my book series, The Scars We Choose, here. The interracial relationship in that story was inspired by my first love. The things my main character, Scarlett, went through at the hands (and words) of her parents were inspired by actual events. As a Substack subscriber, you can download a free copy of Book One through the end of this month.
In college, I met my husband, Shederal, and was disowned by my parents. Mama didn’t last two weeks before she called me crying in concern about “what people will think” and “how the family will look,” but my Daddy wouldn’t talk to me for more than six months.
That’s when the drinking started.
Fast forward through my twenties and thirties and you’ll see a blur of breakups, makeups, miscarriages, babies, ballooning weight, the deaths of my father (who finally came around, apologized, changed his outlook, and we enjoyed eight happy years together before he passed) and two other grandfathers, odd jobs, and three college degrees. Through it all, drinking seemed to be the only constant. I wasn’t making much art. I wasn’t writing beyond journaling and the occasional sad poem or order pad book idea.
In 2013, my little family took a leap and moved to Florida. It had always been a dream of mine to live by the water, so we did it. We moved to the Tampa Bay area to a house on a lake with a dock and a mile walk to the ocean. I met a group of women I affectionately refer to as my “Tribe” and they helped pull me out of the darkness. I had coffee on my dock every morning, I exercised by the ocean every afternoon, and I even—finally—wrote my first novel. I was living my best life.
In 2016, when my grandmother became too mentally ill to live alone and take care of her needs, I had to move back to Georgia to help my uncle care for her. I’m an only child and only grandchild on my Daddy’s side, so with Daddy being gone, it was too much for my uncle to handle on his own. I’ll be honest with you and admit that I resented having to leave Florida. I was angry, disappointed, and ashamed. While I never openly blamed these feelings on my Gran, I sought escape through writing and at the bottom of bottles.
My new Muggle job wasn’t any help,
and my micromanaging, condescending boss at the time sucked the life out of me. During that time, I grew so despondent that my depression spiraled to the point where I didn’t want to wake up in the mornings. I would lie in bed at night, praying to God and Jesus and my Daddy and whoever else would listen, asking to just be freed. While I loved Shederal and my boys and our precious dog, Rocco, writing and alcohol were my escapes. Now, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t heard a writer’s story yet that included booze and depression and led to feelings of accomplishment and joy.
Here’s where we enter The Office.
One of the bright spots throughout the workdays was my friend, Jon. My “BGF,” as I called him, Best Guy Friend, Jon kept me stocked with memes I should be appalled at, new music I should be listening to, and shows I should be watching. After recommending The Office for the fiftieth time (I hated my own office. Why would I want to watch a slapstick comedy about someone else’s?), I finally succumbed to the pressure and sat down to watch the first episode one Friday evening. Now, if you love TV, then you know that sometimes you have to give a show two or three episodes before it really gets good. For me, that held true for The Office, but by Sunday night my son, Devan, and I had binged the first three seasons... and without the first drop of booze. AND I LOVED IT!!
I didn’t know at the time why I loved the show so much or why, while I was watching it, I didn’t crave a drink, but I just did and didn’t. It took about a month to finish all nine seasons and within a year I’d binged it again three more times. During that time, around 2018, I walked away from both my horrible boss and daily drinking. At the time of writing this, I’ve written over a dozen books (several are out of print and in need of edits), gobs and gobs of poetry, I’ve lost over 50 pounds, and I survived the horror that was the pandemic.
My story isn’t uncommon, though.
According to the World Health Organization, more than 280 million people of all ages suffer from depression. The illness is real and it’s deadly. It’s not just a cute little gray cloud that hovers overhead calling itself “the blues.” Depression steals hope, destroys families, and takes lives.
The Office played a tremendous role in clearing those gray clouds for me. Watching Michael Scott’s circus of a workplace and understanding not only why he’s so foolish but why he loves a failing mid-market paper company so much, falling in love right along with Jim and Pam and Dwangela, seeing myself in many of them, all of these things are what makes the show special to me.
And I’ll admit something…
I wholeheartedly believe that I wouldn’t have ever watched the first episode had it not been for Jon’s constant, relentless nagging. I’m so grateful for it, though. Who knows what would have happened in my spiral?
The little Dunder-Mifflin paper box planter Jon and his wife, Tesa, gifted me is a constant reminder that joy and hope are bigger than depression and they can absolutely be found in the smallest, most unlikely places.
Pam Beesly Halpert was right when she said, “There’s a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn’t that kind of the point?” The Office is an ordinary show about ordinary people living ordinary lives (well, except for Creed, maybe). For me, it reminds me that I don’t have to be perfect and have lots of money and accolades to be and feel successful. Success is one of those relative things that I get to define on my own.
Today, I’m the happiest
and most successful that I’ve ever been. I feel proud and abundantly happy. I have hope. I have joy. I am loved and cherished. Did a silly TV show do all of that for me? Not by itself. It just shone a single ray of light through gray clouds that seemed to never cease. And for some reason, I’ve hung onto that light. And, to me, what I’ve managed to do with that light is how I define success.
Until the Spring
If you observe the holidays, I hope they are warm and you’re able to celebrate with people and pets you love. I’ll be back by the spring equinox! Until then, be blessed, and thank you for your support and friendship.
About Mandy
Amanda “Mandy” Hughes is an author and instructional designer who uses the tarot to inspire storytelling. Her book Mystic Storyteller: A Writer’s Guide to Using the Tarot for Creative Inspiration and companion tarot deck are coming soon! She also writes fiction under pen names A. Lee Hughes and Mandy Lee. Mandy lives in Georgia with her husband and four sons, two of whom are furrier than the others (but not by much). Visit her website at www.haintbluecreative.com and follow her on Instagram @HaintBlueCreative.
Nancy, I’ve been meaning to read this and am glad I took the time. I, too am a hermit during this time. The last three years I’ve managed to be out of town during this time. I have to face it this year. I have a family here in SC, they are beyond caring and very dysfunctional. Thank you so much.
As a Hermit I totally get your taking time out. And thanks for being so vulnerable ❤️