Why Wonder? My Quest to Understand Depression Continues

Over a year ago I finally decided to step out of the depression closet, inspired in large part by the suicide of Robin Williams and other celebrities like him.

In that blog, I made a pact with myself to better understand my particular case of depression, before my symptoms got any worse. This crippling condition has affected many members of my family and although they’ve largely suffered in silence, I knew I couldn’t. I’m blessed or cursed with a big mouth and an even bigger, more obnoxious voice. I might suffer, sure, but I certainly won't do so in silence.

A part of me assumed the struggle would be relatively easy. Don’t get me wrong, I knew there would be setbacks and obstacles to navigate, but it'd be like a videogame. I'd just level up and learn some “coping strategies” to deal with them.  Having scrounged up the gall to admit I had depression, I thought I'd done the hard part. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel to true spiritual enlightenment, and it was lined with rainbows, unicorns and a boyfriend resembling Chris Hemsworth.

To nobody’s surprise but mine, I would be in for a rude awakening. As it happens, I would have several rude awakenings over the next 18 months, and surely many more to come. Getting an accurate diagnosis and therapist that gets my particular kind of crazy (and my penchant for self-aggrandizing bullshit) was an ordeal in of and itself. She’s introduced many therapeutic strategies, from medication to meditation, designed to bust my bad habits, but I’m an old dog, very resistant to new tricks. Especially when they involve sitting still and not thinking about anything.

I’m not hyperbolizing when I say facing the many struggles of depression has been tough, and pretty near impossible. But I'm also confident in saying I think it very much is possible. I don’t mean to skirt around my story – I'll share my personal and largely ongoing story of depression in due time – but first I want to jump to the punchline.

The cure to my depression? Art credit to Joey Matthews

The more I’d learn about what’s causing and fuelling my depression, the less depressed I’d feel. This gave me a hunch. What if a curious sense of wonder, the same thing that fuels my creative drive, is the antidote to depression?

Maybe you’re thinking this sounds like New Age mumbo-jumbo, so I’ll serve you up some pretty basic brain science to present my hypothesis. When depression tells us we’re "worthless” and "unlovable" or we feel the impulse to have another glass a wine to numb the pain to those ruminations, we’re activating parts of the limbic brain where instinctive, subconscious emotions originate, which is why depression or anxiety can seem so out of control.

But when we wonder or get scientifically curious, we activate the conscious, decision-making parts of the brain and we gain what the experts call "psychological distance" – that lets us better understand even life’s most difficult problems. It might not be possible in the middle of a panic attack or a night of binge-drinking, but when we have the courage to dig deep the next day – perhaps during that walk of shame – we can deploy our imagination to better understand what triggered the situation, and learn to avoid those situations. And the more we break our more self-destructive bad habits, the more self-aware – and resilient – we become, for when real shit happens.

This all gave me the idea for 1001 Ways to Wonder, a web-series kind of like the science documentaries I’ve made for The Nature of Things, where I could routinely test my theory. Each week I’ll wonder about something, usually the sort of something that might normally drive me crazy, but instead I’d ask how or why it’s driving me crazy. Then I’ll head out to talk to the scientists, armed with my curiosity and my camera, to get the answers.

I know, for example, that a bad breakup or even innocuous rejection can trigger World War 3 trauma in my brain, but why? I've got a pretty bad case of road and dodgeball rage, but does that mean I'm predisposed to Hulk-like aggression?  I've said depression and addiction run pretty deep on both sides of my family, so genetics must play a part, but are we talking leading lady or supporting role?

I don’t think you need me to tell you why we need something like this, so I won't turn this into a PSA. There'll be plenty time for preaching later.

Here’s the thing, I honestly think we can beat our depression – or at least come to healthy terms with it. But that requires opening up and talking about the things we instinctively want to avoid.

Welcome to 1001 Ways to Wonder – now let's science the shit out of depression!

How Robin Williams Helped Me Come Out of the Depression Closet

The unexpected death of Robin Williams got me thinking – once again – just how tragic depression really is. 

It's frustrating that it takes a celebrity suicide to open our eyes and get us talking.

It fills the heads of its victims with crippling despair, distorted thoughts of self-hate, even the most intelligent, seemingly (outwardly) fulfilled sufferers can’t ignore. Oftentimes it targets our society’s most sensible, talented, passionate creators and producers of society. And worst of all, it's a tragically invisible disability many sufferers can't talk about.

In the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram generation of faux happiness, we’re conditioned en mass not to talk about our bad days, because heaven forbid we be the party buzz-kill.

Well that’s too bad, because it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Yes, if you haven’t guessed it already, I very much suffer from bouts of depression likely fueled by bad genetics and a shitty childhood and a few poor life choices. And I want to get this off my chest if I’m going to understand and hopefully beat it. 

Psychiatrists still don't fully understand the causes of depression, so here's my two cents. 

First off, a tiny confession. I almost published a version of this blog post about a year ago, after the tragic overdose of Glee star Cory Monteith. Ostensibly this talent had the life: as the star of a popular show with a loving girlfriend and a hopeful future. But that’s the picture that’s always painted – especially when you have agents, managers and publicists operating the paintbrush.

But then of course I got cold feet. I can’t remember why. I probably got chicken-shit after my mood took an upswing. I certainly didn’t want to shatter the illusion people may have that I’m totally fun and confident, that I’m actually somewhere on the spectrum, bordering on the edge. Eek. Don’t invite that Negative Nancy to the party.

A year later the news of Robin Williams’ death arrived around the same time I’d sunk to an oppressive low of self-defeating thoughts. Then I watched a Ted Talk about the Power of Vulnerability by author and leading social worker Brené Brown. I slurped up her Kool-aid it finally dawned on me. If I truly wanted to beat this, I’d need to open up and be damn honest about even this kind deep, dark shit if I wanted to see positive change.

Brené Brown's Power of Vulnerability in a Coles Notes Nutshell

Maybe you’re thinking: Wow, how more self-centred and self-indulgent can a narcissist get? A celebrity figurehead dies tragically and somehow he once again finds a way to relate it back to himself? Here's the thing, I routinely struggle with seemingly irrational bouts of negative thinking, and I very much work in the TV / film wheelhouse, a bumpy road of feast or famine where uncertain circumstances only trigger or exacerbate the symptoms. Maybe it’s just my hyperbolic nature, but their deaths struck a major chord.

I knew something might be up when I finally started to get my act together – and I’d still manage to spiral into crushing pits of despair. Survival of the Fabulous gets green-lit but that must be a fluke. I got into the CFC Writing Program, the third time applying, I’d still manage to convince myself that I must be a fraud, they’ll figure it out soon enough. Even when I ostensibly attained my personal Holy Grail – an attractive, wholehearted guy who actually liked me back – I’d still have thoughts that it’s an illusion, he doesn’t really like me, I’m still unlovable – and surprise, surprise, cue the downward spiral into Depression Alley. 

Recently an investigation of my family tree for my documentary revealed an alarming, interesting find. Multiple cases of depression and more horrifyingly suicide. My uncle jumped from a high rise about a decade ago. Two great aunts killed themselves via rat poison and shotgun. Apparently another lumberjack actually felled a tree so it would intentionally crush him (okay that one might be an urban legend).

All those black and white portraits are untimely deaths. 

It just so happens depression, alcoholism and drug addiction have reared their ugly heads all over both sides of my immediate family, so it’s certainly hereditary to some degree, so are my demons naturally going to grow up into all-consuming, suicidal Devils?

I sometimes wonder if contemplating the contemplation of suicide even counts. It’s true I probably am too much a drama queen to go out in a quiet fashion. I mean at the very least I’d want to recreate a kill sequence from my favorite Final Destination and make a trashy posthumous reality show out of it.

I used to think I’d dodged the addiction bullet. I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life. I didn’t start drinking until well into university and I’ve never used it to dull the pain. Maybe my family of felons and addicts acted as reverse role models – and saved me from a predestined path of self-destruction.

But let’s call a spade a spade. I may not be addicted to booze or blow, but I certainly do have an addiction for validation, which I’ve chronicled extensively on this blog – and will recap more in part two of this uber-fun depression series, where I try to get to the bottom of why people like us suffer from depression.  

Some addicts "choose" booze or blow. I prefer the Boys, Body Dysmorphia and Validation cocktail 

For the longest period of denial I tried to convince myself that I was in no way like the aforementioned Tortured Artists of the world. I don’t go on partying binge-fests that result in blackouts and shaving my head.

Some of my friends and family even know I have oscillating super-highs and depressive lows. But they think there’s no cause for concern because I’m really just an attention-seeking Drama Queen, too shallow to raise alarm bells. I’d even convinced myself and got really good at concealing my brooding darker side. If you only see me as a vain, vapid pre-law school Elle Woods, that’s because the more confident, more shallow and all-around funner Bryce is clearly more likeable than the real, tortured deal.

It turns out this is Comedy and Depression 101, as this fantastic article by David Wong about Robin Williams illuminates why funny people kill themselves. The seemingly obvious jist of it? Depressed people use jokes as shields to hide their abused souls.  

I’m not crying for help with this post. In fact, I was going to keep all this to myself. Or maybe sugar coat it for a psychotherapist.

But I want to understand the nature and nurture of depression, figure out how it manifests. Maybe even some of the readers out there – you know, all seven of them – would find it helpful to know just how common depression really is, and that it’s okay, in fact necessary, to be candid about it.

Once I better understand this depression business, I’ll formulate a strategic battle plan, so I can beat the shit out of it. The one thing I do know is it’s life-long war, and one that would require a daily regimen of patience, willpower and commitment.

Teaser: if I could go from Chunky to Hunky, I can slay a few pesky mental health demons. 

It’s a bit terrifying that it’s 2014, and we still don’t know the answers. Doctors prescribe anti-depressants like they’re one-size-fits-all cure-alls and psychiatrists disagree whether we should even take them.

But spoiler alert: I know seeking help is possible – and it very much can and does work with time. But it’s an ongoing battle and when symptoms are their most severe, the motivation to seek help wanes, making the vicious cycle continue and the need to talk about it all the more important.

It truly is a tragic shame that Robin Williams and other formidable artists like him never found their answer. But I will say thank you for giving me the courage to speak up.

I have a Confession to Make...

Okay. First a necessary precursor: It’s been over TWO months since my last blog post. I could say I was busy shooting the documentary and writing my book. Both excuses are based in partial truth so therefore might sound valid. But let’s also be clear: they’re also Bullshit, just like all excuses known to man. The unfortunate truth is I have an addiction, the satiation of which kept me from releasing this next post, which is actually the topic of the very post itself. How’s that for bitter irony?

Writing these blog posts is kind of like an exercise in cathartic release and psychotherapy. Once I use the digital page to exorcise one of my demons, I can’t exactly fall back on my word? That would make me Queen of the Hypocrites.  

If you've slept with any of the gentlemen pictured here, this blog post is for you!

So perhaps, subconsciously, I needed to go through one last cycle of tempting bad habits. Re-downloading Grindr (after I'd pledged to Never be a Hookup Whore ever again) and meeting up with 20-something prettyboys to gorge my need to feel young, hot and desirable. Getting lazy and eating muffins at Starbucks so that I could get fat again (by my standards), so I’d have an excuse to look down on myself, and blame the problems in my life on not being goodlooking enough. I know it all sounds crazy, but these are the Symptoms of a much more virulent addiction. And it’s one I plan to beat.   

So faithful and patient readers. Without further ado, I have a confession to make.

Bryce Pre-Addiction. He didn't smoke, party or do drugs. But he also never had sex. 

I’ve always put myself on a self-righteous pedestal because I lived my adolescence on the straight-and-arrow. I got straight A’s in the 90s. I didn’t drink or go to parties because I was too busy trying to be Hermione Granger and Alex Trebek's love child (okay Hermione wasn't born when I was in high school, so the idea of her sleeping with a man in his 70s is kind of gross, but you get the point). I’ve always resisted the boozing, drugs and even smoking that tempt mere mortals. 

But then I came out of the closet and you all know what happened there. That’s right, I excavated my deep insecurities and transformed into the delayed douchebag you love (or love to hate) today. Problem is, remember how I said I’m trapped in the third quadrant? The phase where one Makes Up For Lost Time where you trade your self-respect and dignity for a six-pack and high-school hookups. Well here is where I discovered an addiction to Validation (of Sexual Desire). A drug worse than cocaine. 

Stage One Validation Addiction: Former Fatties will know it well.

Anybody cursed with an addiction for validation knows it's pretty simple. 

You look in the mirror and hate what you see. So you go to the gym and pump iron until someone tells you "you're hot." It will start with friends, family and colleagues, but their empty compliments mean nothing, because they're not having sex with you. But eventually you'll start to get attention from randoms in the bar. Or you'll put up hot new pictures on Grindr. And just like magic, you'll start having sex with guys you could never have sex with before. You might wake up feeling empty or shameful you didn't do something more productive. But luckily there's always another sexy hookup to make you escape those shameful thoughts! 

Unfortunately, in Stage One Validation Addiction, you will be plagued by unrelenting Self-Doubt. As you break your routine (and lose your sense of discipline), this can subconsciously lead to Shame-fueling Binge Eating. If it's really bad you might actually get fat again, but, either way, that's what you will see when you look in the mirror. You might think the easy cure is simply getting validated. You could tell me I have a great body and mean it - but guess what, chances are I’ll forget by the next day, when I reach the next hurdle in life. When you’re truly addicted to validation, you keep raising the stakes, eventually adding Body Dysphoria and Perfectionism

Stage Two Validation Addiction: PLAYERS FOR LIFE suffer from this.

In Stage Two Validation Addiction, your self-sabotaging Stockholme Syndrome loses its grip, and you realize Upper Echelon Grindr Hotties can only be attained by going to ridiculous extremes of dieting and exercise. You'll believe you've Raised your Standards and adopt a truly visceral Body Dysmorphia. So when you look in that mirror, you'll still see the Fat Monster you always hated. And thus the Cycle of Validation starts anew, as per above. 

The fact that I decided to pursue a career in entertainment makes my validation addiction cripplingly two-fold. It’s sexual and creative! Basically I either need you to say you desire me or you think I’m brilliant! A daily bout of writer’s block can fuel a sense of creative talentlessness. To escape that feeling, I might try to score a (meaningless) date or hookup. If I fail in that, I'll blame my inch of pinch-able fat. If I succeed I might beat myself up for not being productive.  

The thing with an addiction to validation, there isn’t a set paradigm for curing it. How many validation rehab clinics have you heard of? A 12-step regime or Validation Anonymous? Sure you can spend hundreds on psychotherapy (and believe me I have), but chances are that will only solidify the idea that you're crazy, and make you dependent on Therapeutic Validation.  

Holy Grail Cure for Validation: If either of these Chris' falls in love with you, you can skip my next blog post.

The easy cure for an Addiction to Validation is a deeply fulfilling long-term relationship with a smoking hot Ultimate Catch. That's right, to become an Ultimate Catch, you must earn the love of an Ultimate Catch. He or she will accept you despite your insecurities because in their storied wisdom, they can see your unearthed potential. Because they’ve got a 9 face and 9 body, you’ll actually trust their esteemed judgement. You’ll become the effortlessly confidant hunkosaurus Rex pretty much overnight.

Alas (and this is a good thing), we live in a world where you have to love yourself before you can truly be loved. They call this Self-Validation. Now in lieu of magical, meaningful love from Mr. or Mrs. Perfect, chances are, you’re on your own in the big fight. The good news is once you beat this independently, there’s no going back, grasshopper. But if that Ultimate Catch above turns out to be a Player Douchebag and dumps you, welcome to Validation Addiction!

The bad news is I’m extremely long-winded and a bit of a tease. You’ll have to wait until next week for Bryce’s 12-Step Routine to Beating Validation Addiction.