I woke up alone in my bed. With my clothes on, kind of surprised actually because I normally wake up naked with someone next to me on a Sunday morning. Considering the fact that I don’t remember anything from last night. Wait, that’s not true. I remember arriving at The Belfry Bar and doing shots of whiskey and drinking PBR. That was it, I just don’t remember getting home though. But there’s still something very different about this day. I feel less than zero. I hate to acknowledge this to myself but my episode of chronic depression decided to air again. I went to my living room and saw the black wolf with luminous, yellow eyes staring at me. You might be wondering what the fuck was the black wolf doing in my apartment.. The black wolf is my depression. The more I stare at the black wolf, the more I feel like shit. I tried to throw myself into writing. I opened my laptop and ended up gaping on the screen of a blank page for about an hour. I also lost my appetite that day. I forced myself to eat breakfast, I made three strips of bacon and scrambled eggs. It was tasty but I wasn’t feeling any hunger. I just thought it’s good to fill up my stomach. Then I went back to bed and stared at the ceiling. The black wolf followed me there too, it sat down next to my bed, still staring at me. All of a sudden, it hit me. I remembered that next month is July, there are two major things happening. The national release of my novel and my 30th birthday. Yeah, I’m turning 30 next month and I still feel like I’m in high school. I realized that I haven’t really changed during the last twelve years. I remained myself. Except the fact that back then, I was broke and hopping on numerous shitty office jobs here in Manhattan and now, I actually have money in the bank and no longer work for the arrogant bastards also known as the greedy assholes/ceo’s/managing partners or whatever the fuck you call those fuckers of life who are members of the disgusting one percent. I work for myself now. I know I shouldn’t feel depressed because I’m doing what I love to do and earning money at the same time, but the type of depression that I have is chronic, meaning it’s genetic. The kind of depression that was bestowed on me by God the minute that I was conceived. And having the fact that my own mother tried to abort me while she was pregnant and my father who ran away from both of us, does not help either. It bothers me that my father wasn’t there, it made me think that I am not worthy of a man’s love. Because when a child is born, nothing is more important than the presence and protection of a man who gave him life. As with my mother, she was only 23 when she had me. I remember it so vividly when I was a little boy, I would look into my mother’s eyes and she had absolutely no idea what to do with me. She looked confused and scared. I sensed a hint of regret coming from her. If she regretted having me, then that’s her problem. She should’ve kept her legs crossed in the first place. But she’s not a bad mother, she just wasn’t prepared to have me. My mother now lives in Toronto. I haven’t spoken to her in over a month. I kind of feel guilty because I’m her only child and still there’s this emotional distance between us. Sometimes, I kind of feel sorry for her. She never had any man in her life since my asshole father left us. I think she’s scared and still hurt, even though it’s almost three decades ago. She’s been alone all this time. I do want her to get married though, eventually. And it’s never too late for me to have a father figure.

I decided to step out of my apartment and go for a walk. I went to Washington Square Park near NYU and sat on bench, there’s this jazz band playing music that’s reminiscent of the 1920’s, an era that I’ve always wanted to be a part of.. Across the bench from me, there it was, the black wolf sitting and gaping at me. Like a predator looking at its prey. I was the prey. Now I felt lower than dirt and hollow. Some crazy thought entered my head, I was standing on the 8th Street-NYU station, waiting for the train, the oncoming train arrives and immediately jump in front of it. Then the next day it was on the NEW YORK POST, the headline reads: “NOVELIST JUMPS TO HIS DEATH!!”. I then shook my head as reality sucked me back in. I looked at the bench again and the black wolf was gone. Here’s the thing about depression, it’s not sadness. It’s an absence of feeling and life. People who have never gone through depression will never understand this and it fucking pisses me off when someone says that depression is some sort of myth. Do your medical research before making an assumption asshole! I walked to Thompson Street and Bleecker in Greenwich Village. I went to the Red Lion’s Club where they play live music almost every night. When I went in, the live band is playing alternative songs from the 90’s like Beck, Radiohead, and Matchbox Twenty. I hung out there for a while, trying not to think of anything. I got bored after half an hour and walked out of that place. I went back to my apartment on East 17th Street and Broadway and avoided all the text messages that I received. My agent left me a voicemail but I didn’t listen to it. I heard someone knocking on my door, I found it strange because I wasn’t expecting anyone. I opened the door and it was my neighbor, George. He’s a recently divorced man in his 40’s who was forced to move out of his Upper East Side townhouse after the divorce trial court awarded it to his former wife. He’s also required by law to pay child support and alimony every month to his daughter and ex-wife.

“Hey Lorenzo, I’m sorry to bother you but I was wondering if I can borrow $20 from you, I just need to buy my metro card to get to work tomorrow.” He said.

“Sure” I replied.

I took out a fifty dollar bill from my wallet and gave it to George. He was so glad that it was more than he needed.

“This is fifty dollars, thank you much! I’ll pay you back next week.”

“Don’t worry about it George..”

“Lorenzo,”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

I wasn’t so sure if I should lie to my neighbor or just pretend that everything is normal.

“No, not really. Just a little depression, but I’m gonna be okay”.

“Shit, that sucks man. You know what, give me a minute. I’ll get something for you.”

George went back to his apartment and then came back with a Ziploc bag of weed and handed it to me.

“Here, this will help you. I’m on a regular cannabis diet ever since that messy divorce with my ex-wife, losing half of my bank accounts, and townhouse which I’m still paying the mortgage for.. It will help you get through it, believe me.”

“Thanks George, I mean you don’t have to give me all of this..”

“Don’t worry, I have a ton of it. I’m just glad that I still have my stock broker job on Wall Street, otherwise, there’s no way I’m gonna survive living here in Manhattan. So smoke it up!”

“Thanks again”

George then left and I went to my living room. I rolled a joint and started smoking it. Marijuana does have the power of making you feel better… I started feeling more relaxed, with no presence of the black wolf around. My mood was slowly elevated. It’s not one of those cheap weed where it makes you high and then you suffer a fucking headache. Wherever George got this weed, it’s tasted like a fucking hybrid. All natural high, no headaches or dizziness. After I finished the joint, I took a shower, put some nice clothes on and went bar hopping in East Village.