There’s a sign on this bus: Depression in men looks different. Call this number for help. Different, yeah. I just worked my eight, nine, sometimes ten hours and now I’m headed to the grocery to buy something for dinner. I’ll take it home, cook it, and feed my (grateful, yes, loving, yes) family. I’ll spend the brief evening “relaxing” while managing chores, people, and pets before shower, bed, then tomorrow. Lather, rinse, repeat. I consider this sign, with my demographic firmly in its crosshairs, and wonder how they miss it. I’m not depressed. I’m tired. Oh, this is my stop.
When Douglas Lang dreams, he dreams of sleep.