Every morning I wake up depressed—for 10 minutes


I hate waking up in the morning.

I hate it.

My brain automatically visits the darkest place, and I stay there for 10 minutes. I think, instinctively, about death. About my death. About the days fading away. About aging. About the decline. About an inevitable nothingness.

Then I take a shower.

Then I greet my kids.

Then I turn on Jackie Wilson.

The rest of the day is usually fantastic. I’m a writer! I live in California! It’s warm and sunny! My neighbors have a grapefruit tree! I’m allowed to take whenever. My children are lovely! My wife is amazing! Hot chocolate! Coffee! Scrambled eggs! The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill!

All great.

Then I go to bed, knowing those 10 minutes await.