Modern TV and a Mental Health Check-up

These shows don’t exist. You understand that? They don’t exist, but I can’t help thinking that they do, because this is all I see.

Your options for entertainment:

A show about a high school history teacher that, after being diagnosed with Adult ADHD, decides to cope with his newfound discovery of neurodivergence by moonlighting as a contract killer for the mob. It’s a gritty, brutal, high-stakes family drama. The first season ends when a job goes wrong, and he’s forced to defend himself. Someone opens a door, and he thinks it’s the assailant, but instead it’s his wife. He accidentally blasts her in the chest with a 12-gauge shotgun. We’re left not knowing whether she survives. It’s a cliffhanger. But in the end, it’s a moment of poetry. It’s because in the first episode she gifted him this shotgun on his 40th birthday, hoping he’d use it to practice clay pigeon shooting with her brother, who is sort of this tough-guy outdoors hunting type. Well, he did, and he realized he was pretty decent at it; decent enough that it’s his weapon of choice when getting the job done as a hitman. But there’s more to it. You see, he and his wife were having marital problems, and when he accidentally sprayed her with hot lead buckshot, it’s really just symbolic of the premature ejaculation of his sexual frustration. It’s a manifestation of male impotence festering into toxic masculinity. And it’s also a commentary on gun control, because that’s important. It’s something we really need to talk about, finally.

Have you seen this show? Neither have your co-workers or friends, because there are too many hard-hitting, high-quality shows. Nobody is allowed to be on the same page anymore. There is no cultural zeitgeist anymore, just a balkanized microcosm of personal preference and recommendation algorithms. They’re all watching another show you’ve never heard of.

It’s a show about aliens invading earth. Like, full-scale invasion, collapse of governments as they fall one-by-one to the onslaught of technological superiority. Humanity is on the brink of enslavement. Our protagonist is a retired CIA-agent turned physics teacher. There’s the scene he’s introduced where he’s lecturing some bored high-schoolers about Newton’s 3rd Law, and that’s supposed to be subtext for how he’s being pushed to the edge, and how humanity is gonna be pushed to the edge, but they’ll fight back and the aliens will have what’s coming to them. That will be our only physics lesson, we don’t want to scare away audiences. Anyway, our protagonist is exposed to an alien pathogen, which unlocks his latent psychic abilities. This allows him to understand their language and delve into their secrets. He’s a spy at heart, so this is really good for him. This might just be the edge humanity needs in their fight against these alien oppressors. But don’t get too excited, because we need to make sure this is relatable. The REAL fight is with his crippling addiction to alcohol or pills or both, I don’t really remember which one. Also don’t forget about the legal battle for split custody of his estranged kids. See, he’s actually a good father if he could just get his shit together. And that’s what makes this story about alien invasion so relatable. His ex-wife is a busy nurse in a hospital, so you’re gonna have lots of scenes with him calling her while she’s treating wounded combatants while they’re arguing about how he’s not responsible enough to show up to their kid’s violin recital, but he can’t tell her the reason because he was on a secret mission to undermine the alien invasion. And there’s also plenty of scenes in court rooms and lawyer offices. You might wonder why we can’t have more spaceships blowing up, but that’s because it distracts from the real human element. Which can only happen in hospitals, court rooms and lawyer offices. Because at the end of the day this is a show about family.

I could go on and on about how it gets really good in season three. That’s when we learn the aliens just really want what we want: respect and dignity. They were just escaping their dying homeworld and just want to share in the economic prosperity our planet has to offer. Is that too much to ask? It turns out, we were the fearful ones all along, and we really just need to learn to live together. Of course, that proves difficult as earth-first militants constantly sabotage plans for peace. Also, our protagonist is once again thrust into the middle of all this chaos while he’s trying to forge a new life with his alien girlfriend. His alcoholism was mostly under control until we find out it was rooted in deep-seeded guilt. Back in the day, as a CIA operative, he was running a black-ops human-trafficking scheme in Afghanistan. Trading young boys to pedophilic warlords in order to gain information and exert control over the region. This all comes to the forefront when he’s ordered by the new world government to traffic human women in order to placate a faction of alien separatists. It’s all very shades-of-gray high-stakes drama. Seriously, you should watch it.

Not into sci-fi family shows? Ok, you should try watching this documentary about stray cats in Argentina. It’s very emotional. Seriously, you don’t understand. We. Are. Not. Doing. Enough. It’s a real problem. If you watch this, you are going to have your heartstrings tugged. You’ll be crying. I won’t spoil it by saying any more. It’s definitely a documentary you want to go into blind. What’s even better, after watching this, you’ll be armed and ready to bludgeon this topic into any dinner-party conversation. You can corner a stranger, he’s wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, a trucker hat, and maybe an ironic graphic T-Shirt; always hold that guy hostage first. He’s holding his drink, nodding fervently as you explain how important this is. He’s just saying “yeah, totally. I’ll add it to my list.” Don’t worry, say whatever you want and be as vulnerable as you’re comfortable with; you don’t need to worry because you’ll never see them again anyway.

I’m going to throw you off and break the rule of three by telling you about one more show. It’s a historical romance set in the Victorian-era. In fact, it’s about Queen Victoria, only she’s a lesbian. Isn’t that cool? Beneath all those hot layers of lace, corsets, and ruffles, lurks the seething desires of an awakened, sexually liberated boss-lady. Historians might quibble about the historical inaccuracies, but this was a long time ago, and who can REALLY say what was going on behind closed doors. It takes some liberties, sure, but look at the costume and set design! Immaculate and gorgeous, we just can’t get enough. But what really tips this show over the edge is the scene in the first episode when Mary Seacole liberates Queen Victoria’s sexuality with a sensually demure deliverance of oral sex. It’s a show we didn’t know we needed, but we are SO here for this. And it, like, for real, makes us look at history differently. I didn’t know people had it so hard back then. But, like, had the same issues as us. It’s so relatable.

I used to love TV shows. I used to love them more than films. I don’t like being negative, there’s too much of it in this world already, especially on the internet. I don’t want my posts to be about things I hate, partly why I just made up a bunch of shows. I’m not here to point out anything or anyone specific.

I used to really like critiquing specific qualities and shortcomings in media and literature. Not so much anymore. I love the act of creativity. To forge and manifest an idea into existence is a spiritual experience for me. And it’s extremely difficult for me to do, because, to carry the metaphor further, I have my own spiritual hang-ups. I’ve lacked faith in the process, and the output. One of these days I’ll talk more about my creative hang-ups, and the methods I use to overcome it. But right now, I’m just happy people are creating something, that they have jobs, and they’re getting paid to tell stories. Suffice to say, I want everyone to be creating something all the time. No matter who you are.

But every once in a while, the day gets cloudy, and the old bitterness returns, and I look at the landscape of media, and it’s like a barrage of insatiable junk food. The golden age of television has passed, we’re in the gilded age. It looks bright and shiny like gold, but it’s just peeling paint.

I’ll acknowledge that it’s fine it exists. I just don’t want to watch it. I just don’t have the time anymore.

What am I even trying to say here? I expressed similar sentiments to a friend once, and they said my feelings are just a symptom of depression. The symptom being: my inability to process new data points and information. I prefer the older shows I used to watch, simply because my mental faculties are incapable of engaging with something new.

What if that’s all it is? What if it’s not all of these shows that’s the problem. What if I’m just crushed by the unbearable weight of broken brain chemistry, scarred from trauma and anxiety. It’s a “me” problem. It’d be so much easier if a magic pill would cure me of my absolute distaste of sitting in a room with people I don’t like as they explain how amazing a new show is, that will never be talked about beyond the week it aired. If I could just nod along and go “oh yeah, that was an amazing scene. That actor is a genius. That director is a genius.” Pretending like I have the slightest inkling what any of that means. It would be amazing to just put on the mask and pretend like the rest of everyone else.

Geez, you know what? My friend might be onto something. This really is sounding like depression.

Aside from that, I’ve had a couple friends, on separate occasions, divulge to me that they started a round of Prozac. I was surprised, but sympathetic. I’ve been diagnosed with depression in the past, I’ve had various stints with prescription meds, although nothing to the extent of Prozac, and nothing long-term. These days I always just view these dark feelings as an occasional low-grade neurosis, to which I function “well enough.” But these friends, I view as high-performers. Certainly more self-motivated and accomplished than me. I hold them (and continue to hold them) in high regard. I’m always amazed with what they’ve accomplished in their life and what they continue to accomplish. They are friends with me, from different social groups, so they don’t interact with each other nor know each other. But when I asked about the effects of Prozac, their answers were surprisingly similar:

“Honestly, it’s a relief. I don’t feel happy, but I also don’t feel sad. It’s really nice not feeling anything.”

When I heard that it sounded both terrifying and appealing. Sometimes that neurosis bubbles up and becomes a bigger burden than I care to admit. Sometimes those sleepless nights, staring at a dark ceiling, add up. A little reprieve sounds nice.

I considered seeking medication. I thought “I bet I could get a prescription of Prozac, could probably just go on one of my rants, and it’d be easy.” It’s taken years of mental restructuring to quiet those persistent thoughts, the loathing and disgust that now just lingers beneath the surface. Simmering, ready to boil over. Threatening to upend my life and undermine everything I’ve scraped together. There’s an appeal to a forever silence.

And then there are days when things are going great. I can never say I’m truly happy. But I’ve learned how to be content. I’ve learned how to accept what I have in life and feel satisfied. Maybe that’s progress, or maybe it’s just stagnation and I’ve tricked myself. Second-guessing is always a fun game to play. It’s on those days, that I’m grateful for that dark sadness that lurks deep down, that’s shaped me into who I am. Because sometimes, on those cloudy days, I enjoy a little rain. And I don’t want a pill to erase those feelings.