The picture above is of me and Winston, my unfixed 150-pound Newfoundland (TMI, sorry). It was taken in 1994, the same year in which the story you’re about to read takes place.

This is the first significant writing project I took on after completing my book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. 

The story is important (to me) for that reason alone. I experienced a severe bout with depression that lasted for several months following the completion of my book. This fun little story helped bring me out of it.

New projects (and old hobbies) can have a healing effect on you. I suppose that’s the lesson, if there is one. Story below…

Mrs. MacGyver

In the early 90s, I went to a new-age hippy school, located right across the street from Michael Jackson’s former NeverLand Ranch. No, I wasn’t molested. Reading, writing, and arithmetic were all effectively optional at my bohemian school. So I elected to spend my days running around like an unleashed lunatic in a sprawling 1950-something asylum while sporting my homemade Batman capes and Ghostbusters shirts and other superhero-themed ensembles and didn’t really learn a damn thing until the third grade, after I moved to Washington.  

My teacher that year, Mrs. MacGyver, was a tough old Black lady (not that that matters). Since I was a new student with no academic records at the school, she had me take a standardized test to assess my reading and mathematical abilities in the fall. My scores were below average, prompting Mrs. MacGyver to place me in John Rogers Elementary’s special-ed program, Chapter One.  

In a chilly and asbestos-laden portable building, every afternoon starting at one o’clock, my classmate Jimico Green and I received an hour of personalized instruction from a nice lady named Mrs. Fulweilier. Jimico Green and I got along well for the most part, although he did occasionally call me a cracker.  

Throughout the fall and into the winter, I discovered I enjoyed reading and wasn’t horrible at math either.  

After conferring with Mrs. Fulweilier and evaluating my progress for herself, Mrs. MacGyver removed me from the special-ed program sometime in January.  

Rachel Straudbeck, who had a crush on me for reasons unknown, took my place in the program. I would have considered “going out” with Rachel, as we called it back in the day, but even then I had standards. I preferred not to date stupid women. That’s horrible and I apologize.  

That spring I remember struggling with long division for a couple weeks. I received dozens of demoralizing red marks on my math assignments, and Mrs. MacGyver ridiculed me in front of my peers on more than one occasion for offering stupid and not-even-close answers in response to her mathematical questions. 

But do you know what that made me do? 

Learn my long division.  

In the weeks leading up to Mother’s Day, she had us write poems for our moms and read our first drafts in front of the class. In my poem I described my mother as being “gentle as a fly.” 

Ms. MacGyver interrupted my poetry reading and laughed out loud when she heard that line.  

“Flies are disgusting,” Ms. MacGyver said, still laughing while simultaneously shaking her head. A chorus of cackles and howls emanated through the classroom and into the hallway.  

“Gentle as a feather, maybe?” I proposed sheepishly, once the laughter had subsided.  

“Gentle as a feather is better,” she said.  

And that was my first experience editing my work as a writer, in front of my peers at John Rogers Elementary in Seattle.  

I always thought Mrs. MacGyver was kind of a (word omitted), honestly. And she was kind of a (word omitted). But I learned just about as much during my one year in her class as I did throughout the rest of my time as an elementary school student. When I officially took my standardized test in the spring of 1994, my scores were respectably a little above average.  

Mrs. MacGyver would be unemployable in this “cancel culture” era, which is tragic in my unsolicited and unprofessional-bordering-on-boorish opinion. My academic development would have been impeded dramatically over the course of years if not for her firmness and strategic interventions. The world needs more teachers like Mrs. MacGyver, not less of them.  

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In 2019, I visited five national parks in six days on my "Bipolar Express" tour of the American Southwest. On day four, I made a stop at the Grand Canyon—a stop I'd write about later in my book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy.

I mention my friend, Louise, a cook at the hospital where I worked as a security guard, in the excerpt you're about to read. That should be all the context you need. In chapter 27 of my book, featured below, I talk about travel as a potential remedy for depression, among other things.

The Bipolar Express: Day Four

The Grand Canyon

I got an early start on day four, my one and only early start of the trip. With over ten hours of driving planned, plus a scheduled stop at the Grand Canyon, I had no choice in the matter and set out on my 664-mile journey around 8 a.m.

On the curvy road leading to the Grand Canyon’s South Rim, I made one immensely stupid maneuver that could’ve easily killed me, passing a slow-moving truck near the top of a hill. If someone had come flying down that hill as I passed the truck, I would’ve almost certainly died in a head-on collision. But I survived. And for the first time since that ferry ride with my friend Louise, I felt blessed and grateful—happy to be alive.

In my thirty-four years, I’d never seen the Grand Canyon in person, but I’d heard favorable reviews. While researching the park, I learned it had a 99 percent “Fresh” rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

I had made it as far as the Grand Canyon’s South Rim entrance once before, back in the summer of 2007. Just before dusk, I recall having a conversation with a park ranger.

“Hello,” the ranger said, with an oversized and phony smile. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” I was grumpy and disliked everything about him: his shrill voice, ridiculous hat, and air of pomposity. The price of admission offended me too.

“Twenty-five dollars? You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I complained. “That’s highway robbery.”

“Take it up with your congressman,” he suggested.

I paused for a moment and imagined the ranger’s silhouetted figure plummeting backwards into the canyon, his screams echoing through the empty space and slowly decreasing in volume.

“Will I even be able to see anything?” I eventually asked.

“It’s almost dark now. You won’t see much.”

I saved my money and turned around, not inclined to spend twenty-five dollars on a self-guided star-gazing excursion. In my daydream, the canyon floor opened and the ranger continued his head-first descent into hell while Tom Petty, flanked by George Harrison and Jesus, performed a gorgeous acoustic rendition of “Free Fallin’” from heaven on a mystical TV monitor in the sky.

* * *

Twelve years later, I used my all-inclusive “America the Beautiful” National Parks and Federal Recreational Lands Pass at the same gate and then stopped at the park’s first viewpoint, fittingly called Desert View. It was a hazy day, but that didn’t detract from my experience.

Five to six million years ago, the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon. It’s larger than the state of Rhode Island—277 miles long and up to 18 miles wide. Elevations within the canyon vary from around two thousand feet at the bottom to nearly nine thousand feet at its highest point.

The painted desert’s reds and pinks were even more striking to me than the color combinations I’d observed in Utah. Green offspring, born with immeasurable privilege, sprouted from ancient beds of gold and yellow sand. A half-mile beneath me, decorative coats of purple splashed over the mudstone and sedimentary rock.

I spent as much time looking down at the Colorado River, slithering its way through the still and mighty abyss, as I did admiring the canyon. The river’s energy was faint but fierce and palpable from where I stood.

Blue was still my favorite color, followed by red, then gray—menacing gray, like the unforgettable sky I’d hiked under at Capitol Reef National Park. Green didn’t crack the top three. And there at the Grand Canyon, I realized I’d chosen the wrong state to call home for twenty years. It was time for me to say “so long” to Washington.

The Grand Canyon has over a dozen lookout points along its main drive. At Navajo Point, I met a cool older couple named Skip and Randi. Skip was an avid photographer. We talked about the photography conditions, previous stops on our journeys, and locations of origin. They were from New Jersey. We all began and would end our trips in Vegas.

I took their picture; they took mine and then we went our separate ways.

Five minutes later, I saw them again at the next viewpoint. While Randi explored the area, Skip and I continued chatting about the canyon, national parks in general, and careers. He said he was an engineer in a past life.

“You’re retired now then?” I asked.

“I am retarded,” he confirmed.

And yes, that is actually what he said.

When I ran into my favorite retirees from Jersey for the third time that morning, we exchanged pleasantries and commented on our shared sense of déjà vu. Then Skip pointed to a location where he could get a “perfect shot” of me. It was about fifty yards from where we stood. To get there, I’d have to climb down some boulders and onto a narrow ledge.

It seemed to me that Skip’s proposition was tantamount to what my schoolyard chums in the mid-90s would have called a “double-dog dare.” Naturally, I accepted his challenge.

A dozen or so Asian tourists observed the proceedings, creating a spectacle. It was an easy fifteen-foot climb, but the ledge below was only about twenty feet wide and technically off limits to visitors. If a ranger had spotted me, I probably would’ve been kicked out of the park for my irresponsible behavior.

At Angel’s Landing I’d navigated dicier terrain, and I was never in danger at any point on this mini-hike. But it was ill-advised and I wouldn’t do it again. I’ve since realized that it’s okay to say no to double-dog dares, especially if that double-dog dare involves a cliff or the Grand Fucking Canyon.

I reached the “perfect spot” Skip had alluded to in his instructions. From fifty yards away, he and Randi both took photos of me as I struck a variety of poses. The tourists—my audience—marveled at my bravery and stupidity while chronicling the event on their camera phones.

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” On the million-year-old rock, I was energized rather than perturbed as I pondered my own insignificance and stared down into the world’s most breathtaking abyss.

I don’t know if there’s a meaning to life or not. Probably not.

But life certainly feels meaningful when you’re standing on the shoulders of a geological giant and tangible miracle, like the Grand Canyon.

I gave a thumbs-up signal to my new friends from New Jersey, indicating the end of our session. One tourist advised me to be careful as I climbed to safety, which was thoughtful of him.

In the parking lot, I reviewed Skip and Randi’s collection of photos. They got some incredible shots, many of which also featured my fans, the tourists, observing and documenting me from the grandstands.

After he completed his portion of the slideshow, Skip told me he was joking. He didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to accept his double-dog dare, cross the park’s unofficial boundary line, climb down the boulders, and stand on the ledge of a cliff.

Guess I showed him, huh?

We both laughed, shook hands, and said our goodbyes. They texted me a best-of photo compilation later that day. My canyon visit lasted less than two hours. It was, without question, the most significant pit stop I’ve made in my lifetime.

~~~

Amazon link below (click on image).

 

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~~~

I just wrote my first book.

Title: Love Songs and Suicide

Subtitle: A Travel Memoir,
Romance, and Tragic
Musical Comedy

Nobody’s read it so far.

That’s okay.

I haven’t promoted it at all, really.

But that’s about to change.

I just purchased a domain.

At lovesong (dot) blog, I’ll talk about overcoming tragedy and finding harmony in a chaotic world, exploring topics such as mental health, business, music, and travel.

It’s a self-improvement website (for screwed up people).

I’ve been adrift since I finished the book.

But through trial and error, I’ve discovered the cure for a creative hangover.

It isn’t….

Booze
Medication
Or therapy

Yeah, I tried all of those things.

They didn’t work. I’m still in therapy though (an overshare, perhaps).

The cure for a creative hangover is…

A new project.
Something that matters to you, ideally.
That’s it.

Wishing you “sobriety” in all your endeavors, creative and otherwise.

CTA – I have 35 connections as of now. And no one’s likely to see this post. But by some miracle you did. So if you’re not a serial killer, the MyPillow guy, or associated with the mayonnaise industry in any capacity (I believe mayonnaise should be illegal), feel free to connect with me.

P.S. I actually have more than 35 contacts now. I drafted this post a few months ago, but just now worked up the courage to post it. That’s a lousy P.S. Sorry Jasmin (shameless shout out). I’ve learned a lot from stalking your LinkedIn content despite never commenting on it. Thanks much. And even though I hate your “clear over clever” rule, it does make sense to me and to everyone on this paycheck Friday and that’s all for now.

#creativity #hangovers #mentalhealth

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It’s the Book with a Soundtrack!

After losing his day job as an editor, songwriter Robert Horton accepts a minimum-wage security position at a rural hospital. There, he faces off with volatile psych patients and occasionally questions his own sanity. He also meets and befriends Amelia, the beautiful and nomadic nurse who inspires him to travel, write new music, and exacerbates his alcoholism.

Horton later embarks on three cross-country road trips, traversing the Oregon Coast, seventeen other states, and New Orleans. On his “Bipolar Express” tour of the American Southwest, he visits five national parks in six days, navigates a flash flood, and often daydreams about Amelia.

Despite its heavy title, Love Songs and Suicide features hilarious anecdotes in nearly every chapter. Horton reports on his observations as a security guard, detailing his interactions with a motley crew of meth heads and certifiable lunatics. He recounts vomiting on the actress Sigourney Weaver’s mother. Other stories involve a deaf ex-professional breakdancer from the Philippines, “The Worst Wingman Ever,” and a double-dog dare at the Grand Canyon.

Told with the kind of honesty that will make readers cringe in both horror and delight, Horton delivers poignant reflections on depression, anxiety, and grief. The book is also a heartfelt love letter, dedicated to heroic healthcare workers everywhere. It contains four parts.

1. Hangovers Upon Hangovers
2. The Security Section
3. Travels, Tribulations, and a Plague
4. Hang Gliding Naked in the Himalayas

You’re welcome to come along for the ride. And unless you’re on a plane or out in public, pants are optional. Access to the book’s soundtrack is included with your purchase (details inside).

 * * *

And once more, for those interested, the Amazon link.

And here is the extended free sample.

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Ms. MacGyver interrupted my poetry reading and laughed out loud when she heard that line.

“Flies are disgusting,” Ms. MacGyver said, still laughing while simultaneously shaking her head. A chorus of cackles and howls emanated through the classroom and into the hallway.

“Gentle as a feather, maybe?” I proposed sheepishly, once the laughter had subsided.

“Gentle as a feather is better,” she said.

And that was my first experience editing my work as a writer, in front of my peers at John Rogers Elementary in Seattle.

I always thought Mrs. MacGyver was kind of a bitch, honestly. And she was kind of a bitch. But I learned just about as much during my one year in her class as I did throughout the rest of my time as an elementary school student. When I officially took my standardized test in the spring of 1994, my scores were respectably a little above average.

Mrs. MacGyver would be unemployable in this “cancel culture” era, which is tragic in my unsolicited and unprofessional-bordering-on-boorish opinion. My academic development would have been impeded dramatically over the course of years if not for her firmness and strategic interventions. The world needs more teachers like Mrs. MacGyver, not less of them.

* * *

Now, since you made it this far, it’s also remotely possible that you’d like to read a sample from my book, Love Songs and Suicide. So far, my six-foot lesbian friend is the only person on Earth who’s read it, but that’s a one-thousand-plus-word story you don’t need to hear right now.

Description Below

It’s the Book with a Soundtrack Link Included!

After losing his day job as an editor, songwriter Robert Horton accepts a minimum-wage security position at a rural hospital. There, he faces off with volatile psych patients and occasionally questions his own sanity. He also meets and befriends Amelia, the beautiful and nomadic nurse who inspires him to travel, write new music, and exacerbates his alcoholism.

Horton later embarks on three cross-country road trips, traversing the Oregon Coast, seventeen other states, and New Orleans. On his “Bipolar Express” tour of the American Southwest, he visits five national parks in six days, navigates a flash flood, and often daydreams about Amelia.

Despite its heavy title, Love Songs and Suicide features hilarious anecdotes in nearly every chapter. Horton reports on his observations as a security guard, detailing his interactions with a motley crew of meth heads and certifiable lunatics. He recounts vomiting on the actress Sigourney Weaver’s mother. Other stories involve a deaf ex-professional breakdancer from the Philippines, “The Worst Wingman Ever,” and a double-dog dare at the Grand Canyon.

Told with the kind of honesty that will make readers cringe in both horror and delight, Horton delivers poignant reflections on depression, anxiety, and grief. The book is also a heartfelt love letter, dedicated to heroic healthcare workers everywhere. It contains four parts.

1. Hangovers Upon Hangovers
2. The Security Section
3. Travels, Tribulations, and a Plague
4. Hang Gliding Naked in the Himalayas

You’re welcome to come along for the ride. And unless you’re on a plane or out in public, pants are optional. Access to the book’s soundtrack is included with your purchase (details inside).

* * *

Here’s a link to the Word doc (available for free) if you’d like to read a sample from the book, and when prompted, please enter the code 1234: https://1drv.ms/w/s!Ai4OBx3xRtU3hGoLnR-q2LW5QJjs?e=FTmpqE

Alternatively, you can also read the full first section of the book via Amazon’s “Look Inside” feature. 

Amazon link is here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BK625NCY/

Have a prosperous and healthy new year!

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I’m really the last person you should look to for psychological guidance or insights.

However, I’m still here. I suppose that’s the primary reason I feel compelled to include a self-help chapter in the book. In spite of my bipolar disorder, social anxiety, past adversities, inability to function in normal workplaces, and everything else, I’ve somehow managed to stay employed and reasonably sane.

Feel free to skip this chapter and move ahead to the finale.

Also, over the last decade or so, I’ve read over 100 self-help books. Most of them were shit. But through my reading and experiences, I’ve discovered a number of strategies that have helped me survive, not necessarily thrive, as I’ve navigated my personal challenges.

I am, for the most part, someone who’s impervious to self-improvement tactics and advice. The most beguiling and talented motivational speakers on earth aggravate rather than inspire me. Few if any life coaches or “gurus” would take me on as a client.

All that said, these five sanity-maintenance strategies have genuinely helped me.

I dedicated this book to anyone and everyone who’s struggling with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, et. al. If this chapter can help one struggling person, it’s worth including in the book. The list begins now.

My Top Five Sanity-Maintenance Tips

1. Get Action

Former US President Teddy Roosevelt struggled with severe depression throughout his life.. According to Kay Redfield Jameson, a renowned expert on bipolar disorder, Roosevelt was “Hypomanic on a mild day.” Both his brother and son committed suicide. The president’s constant pursuit of “action” helped him manage his depression and avoid a similar fate.

Known for his boundless energy and commitment to living a “strenuous life,” Roosevelt was extremely productive and adventurous. He wrote forty books and read at least one book per day.

After two eventful terms as president, Roosevelt traveled to Africa for a big-game hunting expedition that lasted for nearly a year.

In 1913, at the age of fifty-five, he embarked on his most perilous odyssey: a two-month canoe trip down the River of Duda (River of Doubt), an uncharted tributary of the Amazon. He almost died on that journey and lost nearly a quarter of his body weight. The Duda was eventually renamed in his honor. Today, it’s known as Roosevelt River.

A fitness fanatic, Roosevelt enjoyed vigorous and regular exercise sessions. Some of his favorite activities included swimming, horseback riding, climbing, and weightlifting. He loved violent sports too. As president, he participated in boxing matches at the White House, where he’d regularly challenge his competitors to hit him in the face as hard as they possibly could. He reportedly suffered multiple concussions.

Roosevelt was insane. But he led a remarkably productive life and died of natural causes at the age of sixty, unlike his son, brother, and many others in his family who died by suicide. Bipolar disorder was the Roosevelt “family curse.” Because Teddy stayed in motion — constant motion — he was able to channel his energy, quell his depressive tendencies, and become one of the most significant figures in American history.

I’m not advising anyone to pick fistfights or navigate uncharted river tributaries of the Amazon. Rather than seeking action of the extreme and insane variety like Roosevelt did throughout his life, we can simply aim to become more active.

When I started running at the age of thirty, my mental health improved dramatically. My insomnia flare-ups became less frequent. According to the Mayo Clinic, regular exercise has at least seven benefits. It boosts your mood and energy levels, combats disease, helps regulate your metabolism, promotes quality sleep, enhances your ability to “perform,” and more.

Almost 80 percent of adults don’t exercise enough, according to a 2018 government study. The CDC recommends adults get a minimum of 2.5 hours of moderate-intensity aerobic exercise per week, 1 hour and 15 minutes of vigorous exercise, or a combination of both.

I didn’t expect to like running but found it to be both therapeutic and energizing. My advice to those of you who are inactive or rarely exercise, for what it’s worth, is pick a physical activity (or several activities) that you can tolerate and to commence a fitness routine.

Here’s the quote from Teddy that inspired this section and may inspire you on your fitness journey: “Get action. Do things; be sane; don’t fritter away your time; create, act, take a place wherever you are and be somebody; get action.”

2. Reconnect

In Lost Connections, the author lists nine primary causes of depression. He contends that most people don’t become depressed due to a “mental illness,” but rather because they have unmet needs or unaddressed traumas. In this section, I’ll also discuss the various “prescriptions” the author presents as natural remedies for depression.

First, let’s review the nine possible causes of depression (again, I’m paraphrasing):

1. You have a shitty, unrewarding, or menial job – Maybe you’re a minimum-wage security guard like I was. If you don’t feel like your work matters, there’s a good chance you’ll experience depression.
2. You have a few if any meaningful relationships – Humans are social animals, not unlike our ape relatives. I mean, I’m not so much a social animal. But even misfits like me need a certain amount of human connection, otherwise we get lonely and despondent.
3. You have materialistic values, not healthy values – Most of us are driven by extrinsic motives and constantly seek rewards from our actions, such as money, possessions, likes on Facebook, or admiration from pretty nurses with burly, bearded boyfriends who want nothing to do with us. Individuals with intrinsic motivations, who do things because they enjoy them or find them fulfilling, are much happier than the materialistic majority of people.
4. There’s something from your childhood that you need to address – My mom never recovered from her horrific childhood. I still have scars from my formative years as well. If we don’t come to terms with our childhood traumas, we’re unlikely to be happy or productive as adults.
5. Like Rodney Dangerfield, you get no respect – People at the bottom of any hierarchy, whether it’s in a workplace, school, or other setting, often feel disrespected, vulnerable, and once again, depressed.
6. You’ve lost touch with nature – We’re all residents on the Milky Way’s most stunning piece of real estate, with an abundance of awe-inspiring attractions that are free and open for your viewing pleasure, 24/7. You shouldn’t have to travel far to see something beautiful that lifts your spirits, at least temporarily.
7. Like my father, you have no hope for the future – I’m still trying to help my father and to restore a sense of hope and optimism in him. To quote Andy Dufresne from The Shawshank Redemption, “hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”
8. Depression runs in your family – Johan acknowledges that genetics play a role in the puzzle (his ninth cause is also related to genetics).

On Reconnecting

I was inspired but somewhat overwhelmed when I finished reading Lost Connections. I was profoundly disconnected from meaningful relationships, work, and in every other conceivable way.

My social life was in ruins. Rebuilding it would have been an enormous, multi-year project. That’s why I reconnected with the natural world first. I took my day trip to Coupeville, WA after reading the book. In an effort to reconnect with others, I invited Louise and Amelia to join me. My “Bipolar Express” tour of the southwest was also an attempt to befriend mother earth and suckle on some of her most beautiful features.

Most of the depression “prescriptions” Johan offers in Lost Connections are of the social variety. Once we start to cultivate meaningful relationships, our self-worth increases and we begin to
have hope for the future again.

Amelia made approximately ten of her thirty low-maintenance dude friends in a local adventure club. Volunteering is another great way to connect with like-minded people. You could take a class, join a team, or look to build on relationships within your network. I gifted Lost Connections to Phoenix and several other people. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

3. Disconnect (Your Devices)

Smartphones have revolutionized how we access information and communicate with each other. They’re immensely powerful pocket-sized computers.

Although Steve Jobs didn’t invent the smartphone, he was a driving force in popularizing the device. Interestingly, Jobs limited screen time for his kids, as did Microsoft founder Bill Gates. Jobs famously even prohibited his children from using the i-Pad when it was first released. He understood that the new technology could be harmful if it wasn’t used responsibly.

Today, a significant percentage of smartphone users are addicted to their devices. As a result, many of those users are becoming anxious and depressed. Here are few shocking statistics on cell-phone addiction.

• 54% of young adults report checking their phones “constantly” throughout the day.
• 60% of U.S. college students consider themselves full-blown cell-phone “addicts.”
• 44% of 18-24 year olds have fallen asleep with their electronic mistresses in hand.
• Almost 40% of people never disconnect their devices.

Studies have shown that there is a link between cell-phone addiction and depression, anxiety, and a host of other mental health issues; however, that connection isn’t fully understood yet because the technology is still relatively new.

I’m not advising you to smash your cell phone to smithereens or disconnect entirely. But the average adult spends nearly three hours per day on their smartphone. That seems excessive to me.

Since I entered the social-media matrix a few years ago, I’ve been pretty good about setting rules for myself and limiting my time on sites like Facebook and Twitter. I try not to check my feeds more than twice per day. Occasionally, because I’m prone to compulsive behavior and neurotic, I need to be extra strict with myself.

If I find I’m obsessively checking an app, I delete it temporarily. Facebook and Twitter work perfectly fine on Chrome and most other internet browsers. As I finalized the first draft of this book, I deactivated my accounts for several weeks to avoid distractions. Free productivity apps are available that can block your access to websites and other time-wasting apps at specified times.

Cell phones are also known to disrupt sleep patterns. They suppress melatonin, the hormone that regulates the sleep-wake cycle, and stimulate rather than relax your brain. Most sleep experts advise their patients to turn off their devices at least thirty minutes before they go to bed.

A cell phone addiction isn’t like a cigarette or drug addiction. You don’t need to quit your device in order to be healthy. Simply “cutting back” on your cell phone use may help reduce your depression and anxiety levels, while improving your quality of sleep at the same time.

4. Therapy Might Help

Even though I prefer to avoid using medications if possible and believe depression is overdiagnosed, I’m not anti-big pharma, nor am I anti-psychiatry like Tom Cruise. I believe shrinks, counselors, and medications all play pivotal roles in the treatment of depression and save countless lives each and every year.

When I was on antidepressants, a general practitioner prescribed my medications and monitored my progress. He didn’t know much more about depression or mental health than I did, and as a result, my condition was poorly managed. I needed to be on medication for a while, but I didn’t need to be on it for five years.

The more mental health disorders a person has “stacked” on top of each other, the more likely they are to benefit from medication. That’s my opinion anyway. The cult of scientology and perhaps would disagree with me. My friend Phoenix has PTSD, depression, anxiety, and ADHD. In her case, social “prescriptions” alone haven’t sufficiently relieved her conditions and medications have been helpful to her.

The average psychiatrist knows exponentially more about anti-depressants and all other psyche drugs than the average general practitioner. If it had been an option to me at the time, I would have had a psychiatrist monitor my mental-health prescriptions instead of my regular doctor.

Cognitive behavioral therapy, whether under the supervision of a mental-health professional or using a workbook of your own, can also be effective. In cognitive behavioral therapy, patients work to identify and correct cognitive “distortions,” which are deconstructive and inaccurate thoughts that create negative behavior patterns. I’m prone to all-or-nothing thinking, as I mentioned in my first letter to Amelia. That’s a cognitive distortion.

There are fourteen other cognitive distortions. Some people jump to conclusions and make assumptions based on incomplete or faulty information. Others “filter” their opinions or beliefs and see only the negative aspects of situations. There are also catastrophization, labeling, and fairness fallacies, among others.

We all have “automatic thoughts” throughout the day. Using cognitive behavior therapy, we can “talk back” to our negative thoughts and work toward eliminating them. Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy by David Burns was the first and best of the books I’ve read on the subject.

Most mental-health professionals use cognitive behavioral therapy in their practices. So if you’re looking for extra support or for someone to hold you accountable as you work to change your behavior patterns, seeing a therapist could be helpful.

5. Keep Learning New Things

Research has shown that learning a new skill stimulates the formation of neural pathways. It activates dopamine, the feel-good hormone, and can enhance both your mood and your overall quality of life. Seniors are often encouraged to take classes and pursue new hobbies. By staying mentally active and engaged, they can protect their brains against aging and even potentially reduce their risk of developing dementia.

Amelia was always pursuing new creative outlets and hobbies. She sailed and scuba dived, took design courses, photography courses, and belonged to multiple clubs. She’s one of the happiest and most successful people I’ve ever met. As I said in my doomed letter to her, I noticed improvements in my self-esteem and mood when I taught myself how to sing.

Bonus Tips and Closing Thoughts

Mindfulness — staying in the moment and accepting, without judgment, my thoughts and feelings — was another therapeutic technique I found helpful for a while. 10% Happier by Dan Harris is the best introductory book to meditation I’ve read; it almost converted me from a meditation skeptic into a believer. One of the nurses at the hospital attributed her professional and professional successes to her daily gratitude journal.

Sex is a powerful antidepressant too. I’m sure I’d be happier if I had it more frequently. There was a scene in Sideways where Jack, played by Thomas Hayden Church, advises his neurotic friend Miles to forgo his Xanax and therapy sessions and have someone “work on his joint” instead. It’s crude advice but not necessarily bad advice.

One more time, for what it’s worth, here are my top five sanity-maintenance tips for neurotics and lunatics like me:

• Stay active
• Reconnect with nature
• Reconnect with other people
• Limit you use of technology
• And continue to learn new things

That concludes my self-help chapter. Again, I’m the last person on earth you should be seeking advice from, but if I helped one person, then this chapter was a success.

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