Much to my chagrin, I was neither nominated for an Oscar, nor for President of the United States. Pouring ice on my head will have to do.

Oh and, by the way, anybody friends with Gerard Butler, Idina Menzel or George R. R. Martin? Sadly, neither am I. 

And CONGRATS go out to Sara from the Stuck In A Story fame, for naming the griffin on the cover of God & King! She gets an e-review copy! 

He's officially named Gadiel. And he sounds like a mix between Morgan Freeman & Sean Connery. Because I'm sure you were wondering. 

When someone famous dies, it somehow seems everyone wants in on the action. As if to say, "look at how sad I am about his death," contorting for one last time that celebrity's personal life into something that is our business, our personal right to own and frame.
And thus I hesitate to write this post, as Robin William's death is not about me. And yet, his death has brought to light a much needed deeper discussion on depression. Which is  about me. In the sense that I have depression.

Technically it's postpartum depression, but certainly there's some sort of statute of limitations on tacking on the postpartum bit. I mean, three years? C'mon. But somehow, saying "postpartum depression" get's me out of the "officially bonkers" category, like, "oh, it'll pass, it's just postpartum," the phrase silently mocking me like my pair of size 8 jeans. The only pair, mind you, that my toosh looks any good in. "Oh, that's just my postpartum flab, it'll pass. Speaking of passing, please pass the twice-baked almond croissants." 

And so, as with my baby gut, my depression lingers. But my need to caveat it with adjectives is where I think the problem lies. 

As a culture, we treat depression like it's just some type of bad mood or blip in hormones -something controllable with enough ice cream and rom-coms. People "struggle" with depression. Kind of like how people "struggle" with putting on Spanx. Or "struggle" with getting their kids to sleep.  

But I'm here to tell you, one doesn't "struggle" with depression any more than one "struggles" with appendicitis. Certainly, as with most health conditions, there are ways to help alleviate some of the symptoms through lifestyle choice, but the underlying disease is still there. 

And, since our culture has decided that depression is merely a struggle, implying one can just get over their sad-sack selves with a little gumption, chocolate and giggles, those of us with depression shy away from admitting our frailty. We try to laugh it off as a bad hair day or the all purpose standby, "stress."

But the countless deaths caused by depression, Mr. Williams' included, scream out for our culture to put away our judgement, our embarrassment, our polite dismissing. 

Yet all the same, I cringe under the idea that people would think there is something wrong with me - especially my mind. My self concept is of a competent, intelligent, hopefully witty person who may be a bit of a mess around the edges and stick her foot in her mouth so often her taste buds are rubberized, but ultimately has her s*%# together. 

And outing myself as depressed risks crushing my self concept. It risks admitting to friends and strangers alike that I have to be medicated to function. Well, to function without forcing my children to fend for themselves in the wilderness with nothing but gortex, some sticks and whining to save them, while I hide under my comforter binge watching British period dramas. 

To say this out loud feels like I'm admitting failure as a human being. I gather many with mental illness feel this way. If I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome, that too might be embarrassing and I'd hesitate to ever mention the word "bathroom" in mixed company, but it wouldn't mean I was somehow defective, somehow unable to cope with being alive. And I don't even have severe depression. I just get sad and angry for "no reason" - never suicidal. Escapist, yes, suicidal, no.

A lot of people are wondering how someone who was as funny as Williams could be clinically depressed. I'm guessing, among other things, his humor was a way he coped. I'm an extrovert, generally lively in social settings. I often speak, perform and do podcasts. I'm very good at my public personna. Rare is the person who sees the ugly underbelly. And yet, perhaps like Williams, all that extroversion, all that public performing, helps me. It takes me away from my spiraling inner world for awhile (well, that and Zoloft). It helps me focus on the joy of others. I need the life, the light, the laughter of others - I feed off it. And so to them, I look healthy. But that's because when we don't laugh, we die. And sometimes we die regardless.

So I think it's time we all decided there is no shame in depression. No failure in needing to take medicine or other measures to feel alive again. It's time for those of us with depression to let go of the self-imposed prison, and time for those who lack the "struggle" to lend an ear and a smile and still see a full person. Time to stop viewing those with mental illness as lessor, and perhaps start recognizing that those who struggle have a lot to teach the rest of us about living a life worth the effort. And I'll start with me. 

You came up with some pretty great names, folks, but in the interest of narrowing, I picked just the G's, 'cause alliteration and all.

So vote away! Winner gets an e-copy of God & King. And yes, I am all about tactics here, like harassing your friends and family to vote for the name you came up with. 

Most votes by Sunday wins!