Dan Hagen

Occasionally I wonder whether or not I’m bipolar. All it takes is one small experience – or one little negative thought – and suddenly I’ll feel totally depressed. Shortly afterward, however, I may have one small good experience – or a little bit of my own reassurance – and only a moment later, I’ll feel great again.

I will not discount the fact that my emotional reactions are likely normal in such situations, and I will not discount that I probably have no real mental illnesses whatsoever. Frankly, despite AP Psychology, my knowledge of mental ailments is cloudy. The line between true bipolar disorder and regular mood changes escapes me. The worrying thing about my brief emotional shifts though is that they are actually quite extreme.

Technically there really isn’t anything for me to be depressed about. When I put my life in perspective, I am one of the most fortunate individuals in the world. I have everything I could ever need. I live extremely comfortably. I have a job. I have an education. I have a family who loves me. Even with these things, even with living much more nicely than a homeless Somalian teenager who must regularly scavenge for food, my emotional disposition tends to hit rock bottom at times.

Comparing your lifestyle to that of a third-world country’s is admittedly cliche… and to a greater extent, corny. I’m not claiming that as a first-world middle-class American citizen, I shouldn’t have any problems. Of course I have problems. Everybody has problems. Mine are particularly regarding my job (among other things). For example: Sometimes I’ll have a bad day at work. I’ll make a couple of mistakes. I’ll run into some impediments that that keep me from accomplishing what I need to accomplish, and the result is a very unproductive work day. I’ll feel bad about it – no, REALLY bad about it – and I’ll worry about what my boss thinks of me, what my coworkers think of me, I’ll even worry about job security. That’s how low I get.

Then, I’ll feel great, because my boss actually approached me and praised me for one thing or another. Everything is good again.

Then, as I’m driving home, I’ll wonder if I should buy gas or not, and I feel terrible again because I know I spend so much money on crap I don’t need. It sucks.

Then, at dinner, I’ll be eating a sandwich, and I’ll feel awesome. Because I’m eating a sandwich. A large, juicy, sandwich. A goddamn delicious sandwich.

And it just repeats itself.