A few days ago I had an opportunity to catch up with one of my older hyungs (Korean for “bro”). He and I share a somewhat similar outlook on life, relationships, faith, business, and more. One particular odd thing we share in common is a pent up stark intolerance for BS. We both have admitted in the past that we will put on the happy face in the face of BS, but deep within, it irks us to our wit’s end. In contrast, I submit that I harbor a deep anger within myself that takes some very violently offensive action to stir up. I’m slow to anger, but when it happens, I’ve done regrettable things. Hey, it’s the Korean in me, what can I say.

But most of the time, I try to stay even-keeled, like my hyung. Don’t let the soft visage of the nice guy fool you; my eyes are always watching for the real person I interface with, whether it’s a casual conversation by the mailbox, at the bar, or in the boardroom. I have to say my BS meter has gotten pretty honed over the years. One thing I’ll say about getting older is that you see patterns of how people truly are, and what their motives usually are behind their actions and speech. It gets easier to sniff them out.

So over some steaming hot galbee-tang (korean short rib stew), my hyung and I were catching up on topics like this. The topic of one of our conversations was depression. We both had known many folks in our lives who were down and out, stuck in a rut, depressed– even clinically diagnosed as having the medical condition of depression. Now, the closest I’d been to depression was back in 2003, after my graduation at CalPoly. I had gotten my undergrad degree, and was unable to get a job after the dotcom bust. I came back home to my parents with my tail in between my legs, and found myself polishing off a bottle of wine daily. I felt insufficient, disenfranchised, and like a complete failure as a man. It was during this year that I had to do some true soul searching, and escape from my rut. I was lucky to have good friends to pull me through during this time. I can unequivocally say that this was probably the most mentally challenging time of my life.

But when I look back on it, it wasn’t so bad. I mean, really, come on.

I was lucky enough to actually go back to my parents who could continue to support me. I had a roof over my head and food to eat. I had a car to drive around in and clothes on my back. I even had the means to buy a bottle of wine every day and the occasional late night Jack in the Box complete with 99 cent tacos. I had friends yet (mostly drinking buddies), although I had long since lost touch with most of them, and they kept my misery company in those days. Who was I to complain about it? I basically had it made and was sulking that I wasn’t where I wanted to be.

I found myself caught in what I thought was merely a millennial’s disease of entitlement, but it actually turned out to be something that would affect many millions more – particularly Americans. I found that I started to suffer from the disease of American entitlement. Why couldn’t I feel happy with all that I had right in front of me? Oh, because I wanted more. I wanted what the other guy had. I was ENTITLED to it damnit!! I caught myself in a self-depressing spiral of watching what other people had and forgetting what I already had.

All this, to say I guess I think I might know what it’s like to be depressed, and hey, of course I know many people have been through much more crap than I have, so much respect to them. Some have lost loved ones. I’ve lost loved ones. Some have lost their children or their spouse. I don’t know what that’s like, but I am sure that is a loss worthy of true depression.

But by and large, the depression cases my hyung and I had been seeing in people in our lives could be chalked up to people crying deep inside that they couldn’t get what they wanted. I’m not trying to poop on the real depressed folks out there – because I truly feel for them, but what I’m talking about are the folks who take themselves so seriously that they are on the verge of a heart attack when the smallest turbulence of life shakes them. These are the folks who would obsess over controlling every possible thing in their midst, and need to have this control to fill their measure of (mostly American) entitlement. These are the folks who become upset when life doesn’t pan out their way despite the minimal effort they’ve put in over the years.

My hyung and I both agree on our stance on these kind of “depressed” folks. It’s complete BS. It’s a copout, and can be likened to a spoiled child stuck in an adult body.

Yesterday, my neighbor, an old hapa lady, came to my door in a bawling mess. With tears dripping down her face, I thought someone died or something. She explained that she was upset because the management of our apartment had sent her a letter asking her to cease and desist from having a dog, even visiting dogs (she would from time to time dog-sit my baby Lola). It was a letter simply asking her to reply that she understood the policy, and that she would be evicted if she did not comply with the bylaws set forth in her tenant contract. “I don’t even have a dog!” she sobbed, “I don’t know who but ‘someone’ is telling the management that I have a dog!” I stood there, watching her with the background of the glistening swimming pool behind her. “I just don’t know Peter, earlier I slipped in the laundry room and hit my head, and I got a letter from the management about Lola, and now they’re not letting me smoke outside. . . . I’m just. . . just. . . so tired!”  And with tears streaming to the floor, she slowly approached me for a hug. “I’m just. . . so. . . depressed and emotional right now,” she squeaked. I met her embrace and soaked some of her tears into my shirt. I asked, “Well, have you sent the letter? That’s all you really have to do.” She replied, “Yeah, but. . . you know… that means they could evict me if they see Lola in my place again.” I said “Well, technically, she’s a service dog, so she could be anywhere as needed. But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

As she slowly walked away to go smoke that cigarette, I tried to reassure her. “Hey, you’ll be alright. At the end of the day, it’s all small potatoes. Stop worrying about it!”

She looked back and calmed down. Yeah, it was small potatoes. Yet her desire to control this situation brought her to tears. It made her depressed. It challenged her sense of entitlement. It was BS.

I might sound harsh in this post, but I have no reservations about calling people out on their “depression.” And I know when it’s real, and when it’s an adult baby crying for control of their entitlement. When someone these days tells me that they’re depressed, I can usually tell within 2 minutes or less that it’s real. It’s written on their face. It doesn’t require much explanation. I save my compassion and sympathy for these folks. All the adult-kids, well, let’s just say I don’t give two F’s about them and almost indulge my temptation to put them in their place- but try to keep the even-keeled face lest they spite me later on. Press my buttons enough, and I certainly will.

We all have so much to be thankful for. Too much to be depressed.