Barry Bogs was not a bad guy. At least, that’s what he told himself every morning while staring at the ceiling, wondering why his brain felt like a wet newspaper wrapped around some article of disgust in a DTLA gutter. Barry was the kind of guy who’d offer to valet your car at a Highland Park house party — but only so he could rifle through your glove box for loose Adderall. He wasn’t evil, per se. He had a shaky ethical foundation, like a Jenga tower built by a drunk toddler. Despite his moral flexibility, Barry was oddly likable. People found his self-deprecating humor and deadpan delivery endearing, even when he was casually admitting to lifting from Lassens or lying about his dog dying to get out of social obligations.
But Barry’s real problem wasn’t his questionable ethics. It was the thousand-pound bag of rocks he carried around in his mind. Depression had built a prison in his brain, and Barry was its most loyal inmate. He’d been here before — staring at the walls of his own despair, wondering if it was worth the effort to clamber out of the bog. On paper, Barry’s life wasn’t that bad. He had food and shelter for now. He had dreams (vague, half-formed ones) and abilities (if masterful lying, stealing and cheating count). But his state of mind? In the shitter. He wasn’t sure if he had the energy to fish it out.
He made haste to get away from people who pep talked him, encouraged him to hike or practice gratitude. The depression was thick and sticky; it clung to him like a needy ex. Some days, he managed to shake loose of its clutches. Other days, he sank. On this particular day, Barry sunk. He lie on his couch, surrounded by empty taco wrappers, watching a horror movie about a haunted hair dryer. It was the third horror movie he’d watched that day, and he was starting to identify with the hair dryer.
“Why don’t you just get up and do something?” his friend Kelsey had asked him once. She was one of those annoyingly functional people who believed in “positive thinking” and “life-sustaining behavior.” Barry had tried explaining the bog to her, but she didn’t get it. “It’s not that simple,” he’d said. “It’s like trying to swim in a pool filled with molasses while wearing a lead suit. And also, the pool is on fire.”
Kelsey had nodded sympathetically, but Barry could tell she didn’t understand. Nobody did. That was the thing about depression — it made you feel like an outsider, even among people who cared about you. Isolation made Barry an island; Barry the island was sinking.
The Ethical Quandary of Barry Bogs
Barry’s shaky ethics didn’t help matters. He wasn’t a criminal, exactly, but he had a knack for bending the rules. He’d once returned a broken toaster to the store, claiming it was defective, when in reality he’d just dropped it in the bathtub. (He was not an accomplished suicidalist.) He’d given fake IDs to doctors and cops, and invented achievements wholesale when hitting on women. He’d even stolen a pallet of Wet N Wild lip gloss from the back of CVS, obviously not to fill a need, but to feel the jolt of the boost.
These small transgressions didn’t bother Barry much. In fact, they gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction. But deep down, he wondered if his moral flexibility was part of the problem. Maybe the bog was his punishment for being a bit of a jerk. Maybe he deserved to feel this way.
“Nah,” Barry thought, popping another taco into his mouth. “That’s just the depression talking.”
The Great Escape (Or Lack Thereof)
Barry knew he couldn’t stay in the bog forever. He had to find a way out. But how? He’d tried all the usual remedies — therapy, medication, secret stair — nothing seemed to work. Talking about his problems made him feel worse. Mindless procrastination deepened his sense of guilt. And succumbing to depression? Well, that was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.
What sometimes worked, though, were tacos. And horror movies. And taking the day off to masturbate. Barry wasn’t sure why these things helped, but they did. Maybe it was the distraction. Maybe it was the endorphins. Or maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of it all. Whatever the reason, Barry ravaged these small comforts, dying for relief.
Barry sometimes wondered why he should even bother to escape the bog. What was waiting for him on the other side? A world of responsibilities and expectations? A life where he had to behave like a functional human being? It sounded exhausting.
The Million-Dollar Question: Who Would Barry Be Without the Bog?
This was the question that kept Barry up at night. Who would he be without the thousand-pound bag of despair? Would he be better? Worse? Or just different? Barry wasn’t sure. The bog had been a part of him for so long that he couldn’t imagine life without it. It was like asking a fish to imagine life without water. Sure, the fish might dream of flying, but it wouldn’t know what to do with wings.
What if he did escape the bog? What if he found a way to climb out of the muck and into the light? Who would he turn into? A better person? A worse person? Or just a person who ate fewer tacos and watched fewer horror movies?
Stay tuned for Part II
