I’m not naive enough to think that my generation is the first to experience depression. T.S. Eliot wrote his poem “The Hollow Men” a hundred years ago. A hundred years before that, a surge in mental illness was blamed on newly-invented trains. “Scientists” theorized that the vibrations literally shattered one’s nerves.

No, I do not think depression is new; I’m sure that even cavemen, sometime after discovering fire, felt a certain ennui looking into its flames.

Nor do I think myself or my circumstances particularly unique. I grew up in Plano, Texas. I went to a mid-tier university in California. My parents are still together. I had to work a few jobs to put myself through college, but I’ve done alright since. My friends and I wouldn’t look out of place in a Stella Artois commercial.

So why do we all want to load a revolver, put the barrel to our head, and blow our fucking brains out?

If you’re over the age of 35, you may have found that last visual a bit disturbing. You’re concerned and maybe want to call my parents.

But if you’re in your twenties, you might have let out a little chuckle.

Times have changed.

Imagine this: You’re watching Seinfeld. Jerry walks out for the opening monologue.

“You guys ever feel lonely in this city?” He asks the audience. “I do. Makes me wanna take a fucking handful of pain pills and never wake up!”

The audience goes hysterical. Cue theme song.

That’s the gist of a lot of modern humor. It’s nihilistic. It’s self-immolating. It’s sickly relatable.

It makes us feel less alone.

Follow any popular meme Instagram accounts. You won’t have to wait long before they post content about depression.

Take a look at the comments.

“This is so me.”

“This is so us.”