David Perez battles clinical depression. He heroically describes "two suicide attempts, years of self-hatred, therapy" and an episode where his family watched him hit bottom. What worked:
I … found a gentleman with a trimmed white beard, a strong aversion to bullshit, and an interest in politics. There is little to say about our sessions because I don’t remember much of what was said—though I remember what his bathroom looked like and that I read an old Men’s Fitness article on kettle bells every time I sat in his waiting room. Whatever happened, it worked. The loathing I felt withered into an occasional surge of doubt and discomfort. We talked of women, of my dreams, of irrelevancies. I felt comfortable being honest for the first time in my life. Confidence remained elusive, but self-respect had to begin someplace.
A year passed, and we shook hands. I went to Paris to start grad school, and all sorts of nonsense went on. There were times where I did not leave the apartment for days at a time, but I survived and was a bit bemused to note how intact I was when I made it back home. My family, especially my mother, held my head when I wanted to put it through a wall. They kicked my ass when they thought I was dawdling. Most of all, they listened and tried to understand. I live for them, and for myself.
The Dish 