"Depression can't live in a body that's moving."

In defense of unapologetic aggression

“Depression can’t live in a body that’s moving.”

That’s what a buddy said to me the other day. He’s a counselor and I guess you’d say a “life coach,” so it was great to hear a professional affirm something I’ve come to believe down to the core of my being as an immutable natural law.

We were musing about the positive side of aggression. (Yes, there is one. Call it “assertiveness” if “aggression” is too toxic for you.) We both gave voice to something that had been rattling around in the back of our minds, sort of a low background hum buzzing right below the threshold of consciousness.

I was having a hell of a day last week. Suffice it to say that a lot of things had piled up enough to create a narrative of hopelessness. It started getting so bad that God had to intervene with a couple of unexpected calls in the middle of the day from guys I almost never hear from.

I’m not one to ascribe divine intervention to every felicitous event, but even I couldn’t help but to read the tea leaves here. Two men I respect and admire called to check in and/or ask for my advice about some things at precisely the right moment.

It broke the “poor me” narrative.

The bitch demon Resistance wasn’t done with me yet, though. She had one more shiv to throw at me, and it hit the mark.

That’s when I got mad. Cursing mad. Furious.

It was one of those back-against-the-wall moments where retreat was no longer possible and the bully in front of you is comparatively softer. I punched back.

As it happens, the bully had a weak jaw.