In The Sandman, Neil Gaiman’s version of Death isn’t cruel or vengeful. She’s kind, patient, and — most unsettling of all — completely matter of fact. In one scene, she comforts a baby who has just died by saying: “You got what everybody gets. You got a lifetime.” At first, it sounds brutal. How can a baby who barely lived have received the same as everyone else? But sit with it for a moment. There’s wisdom in it. Life Is Not Measured in Time One of depression’s quiet poisons is comparison. You look around and think: They’ve had more joy. More success. More love. More luck. It can feel like you were handed the short version of existence. But Death’s words cut through that illusion: you don’t get someone else’s life. You only ever get your own. No one is guaranteed a set number of years. No one is promised happiness. No one is owed ease. All you get is the time you’re given — and the choices you make inside it. That’s hard. But it’s also freeing. Because if life isn’t measured in length but in experience, then even difficult years are still part of your lifetime. Not lesser. Not wasted. Just yours. Why This Matters to Me I’ve always loved Greek mythology. It was a natural progression from my first love: comic books. I spent a lot of time in hospital as a child because of a club foot. It was the 1980s. There weren’t tablets or streaming services. There were books. I devoured comics. Heroes who were big, strong, brave — everything I felt I wasn’t. From there, I moved into Greek mythology. I consumed it obsessively. At eleven years old, we were given a “personal project” at school — write to someone connected to your interest. Friends wrote to Manchester United. Others to the Welsh Rugby Union. I wrote to “Professor of Greek Mythology, Oxford University.” Somehow, a real professor replied. He praised my knowledge, wrote to my school and parents, and I was given a special assembly. They presented me with a book: Children of the Gods by Kenneth McLeish.

This community will always have a free option. If you’re struggling, you’re welcome here — no questions asked. I’ve added an optional Premium membership for anyone who finds this useful and wants to support the writing. Nothing essential is locked away. There’s no pressure. No special status. It simply helps me keep building this space and writing consistently. If you’d like to upgrade: • Click your profile picture (top right) • Go to Settings • Select “The Bipolar Bear” • Choose Premium If not, stay anyway. Reading quietly counts. — Matthew

Depression is a thief. It steals energy. It steals motivation. It steals clarity. And worst of all, it steals your sense of control. When you’re in the thick of it, everything feels dictated by the fog in your head. You might feel like a puppet yanked around by emotion. Or like you’re watching your life happen from behind glass. Powerless. Numb. Exhausted. But here’s the hard, liberating truth: You always control two things. Your effort — what you do, no matter how small. Your response — how you react, no matter what happens. Even if the world crashes down, those two things remain yours. Depression can make that feel impossible. But leaning into this truth is one of the most powerful survival strategies there is. It comes from Stoic philosophy — yes — but more importantly, it’s been stress-tested by everyone from Roman emperors to ordinary people just trying to endure. Your Effort: Tiny Acts of Rebellion Effort isn’t about hustle culture. It’s not waking up at 5am, drafting a novel, and running a marathon. It’s about survival. It’s about defiance. It’s about small acts of rebellion against the voice that says, “Why bother?” In February 2025, I lost my job. It was handled badly — underhanded and hurtful. The day after the adrenaline wore off, the realisation hit like damp concrete. I lay on the sofa and felt that heavy rug of depression start to suffocate me. I looked at my little dog — newly adopted — and thought I’d never be able to walk him again. Even though I needed to. So I didn’t try to fix my life. I just did small things. Ten minutes of French. Read a poem. Edge the wedge in. Eight hours later, I was walking the dog — something that felt impossible that morning. On a bad day, effort might look like: • Brushing your teeth. • Sending one text. • Eating a banana instead of skipping food. • Moving your body for five minutes. • Making your bed — even if you crawl back into it. These small efforts are not meaningless. They signal to your brain: I’m still here. I’m still trying.

When you’re vulnerable — especially when you’re depressed — your perspective narrows. The world becomes louder, sharper, more personal. And in that state, you are easier to influence than you think. Depression doesn’t just affect mood. It affects judgement. It affects how you interpret information. It affects what stories you find convincing. And that makes you a target. When you’re in the grip of depression, the world can feel like a hall of mirrors. Every glance, every silence, every rejection reflects one damning conclusion: something is wrong with you. Your brain becomes a master storyteller — convincing, emotional, and often completely wrong. You might think: “I know I’m worthless because I was ghosted.” “This job rejection proves I’ll never succeed.” These conclusions feel like truth. They’re based on real experiences. But an experience is not the same thing as evidence. We are wired for stories. They help us survive. But just because something happened once doesn’t make it universally true. Just because someone’s cousin swore ivermectin cured COVID doesn’t mean it works. Just because your neighbour rants that the moon landing was fake doesn’t mean physics has changed. Anecdotes feel powerful. Data is less dramatic. But data is what survives scrutiny. How False Beliefs Thrive in Crisis The pandemic made this painfully clear. In times of fear and isolation, people grasp for certainty. Conspiracy theories exploded not because everyone became foolish — but because people were scared and wanted control. When life feels chaotic, a neat explanation — even a wrong one — can feel comforting. That’s the danger of mistaking anecdote for data: it gives you a false sense of clarity. Depression and Selective Evidence Depression works in the same way as conspiracy thinking. It gathers selective evidence. If someone once ignored you in the street, your mind might say, “Nobody likes me.” It won’t volunteer alternative explanations. It will default to the one that hurts most — because that’s the narrative it’s primed to believe.

The world is full of ignorance — not just the accidental kind, but the kind people cling to, loudly and proudly. In an age of information, it’s strange how confident some are in misinformation, bigotry, and conspiracy theories. There’s a safety in tribalism, in belonging to a “gang,” and if you’re not in theirs — whether it’s built on racism, misogyny, or any other hate-fuelled ideology — you’re immediately cast as the enemy. James O’Brien has described this mindset as footballification. It’s the idea that political or moral allegiance is treated like football fandom — unthinking, absolute, and adversarial. If you’re not wearing the same colours, you’re the opposition. Facts no longer matter. Nuance is dead. Loyalty to the team becomes more important than whether the team is right. Trying to debate someone in that headspace is a waste of your energy. It’s like the old saying: “Debating with an idiot is like playing chess with a pigeon. No matter how good you are, the pigeon will knock over the pieces, crap on the board, and strut around like it won.” There’s nothing to be gained from that exchange — only frustration. This is something I struggle with deeply. As a neurodivergent person, I have an exaggerated sense of justice. When I see someone being bullied, dismissed, or ignored, it feels compulsory to speak up. I must say something. But over time, I’ve learned that not every battle is worth fighting. Not every person wants to be helped. And trying to change every mind is a fast track to emotional burnout. In The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield imagines himself as the “catcher” — standing in a field of rye by a cliff’s edge, saving children before they fall. It’s a tragic and beautiful metaphor. He wants to protect innocence, stop the damage before it happens. But here’s the hard truth: You can’t be the catcher. You can’t save everyone. Even Superman couldn’t. Even Batman had to choose. You must decide where your emotional energy goes. You must protect your peace — not just for yourself, but for the people who genuinely rely on you. Being selectively ignorant doesn’t mean becoming blind to injustice. It means learning when to walk away. It means recognising that some arguments are traps, and some people don’t want to understand — they just want to win.