Depression is something you should take very seriously. Unless, of course, it has anything to do with the failure of a certain sports team, your inability to beat your high score in Angry Birds or the fact your recreational habits have taken a turn for the worse and all you want to do is lay around and smoke weed. In each case, you’ll feel better if you get off the drug.
I’ve had a couple of years of up-and-down moods that I’ve finally given up trying to understand. I went to the doctor and said, “I’m depressed or imbalanced or something. Fix my brain.”
My doctor is an exercise nut who believes the natural approach — diet and exercise — is how you handle your stuff. Since I have an intense fear of being medicated by more than the occasional bourbon cocktail, we get along great, despite the fact I rarely take his recommendations and am still fat, unhealthy and unmotivated. But that lack of motivation, I think, has something to do with this depression thing, too.
So instead of booking me on the Jason Falls International Tour of Antidepressants until we found one that worked, Dr. Bob wanted to test me for hormones. He didn’t explain, but I figured he wanted to make sure there weren’t any from Mexican donkeys flying around my system. (I assured him I only attended that show in Juarez once and was certain I didn’t touch anything, but a little double-check wouldn’t hurt.)
Well, the test results came in and here’s the medical low-down on The Fallsman: I’m apparently a woman. At least hormonally. Yes, I realize this is impossible to fathom … I am the embodiment of manliness. But I have off-the-charts levels of estrogen and dangerously low levels of testosterone in my system.
I asked if this had anything to do with my man boobs. The doctor wasn’t amused. (His lack of enthusiasm could have been leftover from the fact I punched him in the nuts for leaving me hanging on the medical news all weekend, but still.)
There’s a lot I don’t understand yet … But will soon since this is at least 30 minutes worth of material for my first standup comedy album. But my depression and fatigue and moodiness are the direct result of being all femaled up on the inside. But you should see me in there! I’m fabulous!
We cannot, however, account for my lack of incessant chattiness.
(These are far too easy.)
I’ve been injected with my first round of testosterone treatments — big capsules injected into your hip that time release the hormone over six months — and my ass hurts. I’ll start my “don’t be a girl” pills tomorrow to reduce estrogen. Perhaps it will also curb my sudden urges to visit Target for no apparent reason.
Nevertheless, I’m well on my way to once again being a manly man. If this doesn’t work, you should come over for Stich-N-Bitch next month. I’ll roast some brie and whip up a dip with avocado. We’ll talk about our feelings and call ourselves Ya-Yas.
Granted, I don’t know if this is the problem or a symptom, but it’s a start. If this little silliness on my personal blog serves any purpose, I hope its that you now know a man — an inordinately masculine one, I might add — who isn’t afraid to say he’s depressed and get some help to deal with it.
Whether it’s hormone therapy, antidepressants or even therapy, you don’t have to feel helpless, alone or like crap if you don’t want to. If you ever run into those feelings on a consistent basis, ask your doctor. You’re probably not nuts.
But you may be a woman. Hopefully, not that one from Juarez..
March 25, 2013