My name is Wil Wheaton. I live with chronic Depression, and I am not ashamed.

I’m about to go speak to NAMI Ohio’s statewide conference, Fulfilling the Promise. These are the remarks I prepared for my speech.

Before I begin, I want to warn you that this talk touches on many triggering subjects, including self-harm and suicide. I also want you to know that I’m speaking from my personal experience, and that if you or someone you know may be living with mental illness, please talk to a licensed and qualified medical professional, because I am not a doctor.

Okay, let’s do this.

Hi, I’m Wil Wheaton. I’m 45 years-old, I have a wonderful wife, two adult children who make me proud every day, and a daughter in-law who I love like she’s my own child. I work on the most popular comedy series in the world, I’ve been a New York Times Number One Bestselling Audiobook narrator, I have run out of space in my office for the awards I’ve received for my work, and as a white, heterosexual, cisgender man in America, I live life on the lowest difficulty setting – with the Celebrity cheat enabled.

My life is, by every objective measurement, very very good.

And in spite of all of that, I struggle every day with my self esteem, my self worth, and my value not only as an actor and writer, but as a human being.

That’s because I live with Depression and Anxiety, the tag team champions of the World Wrestling With Mental Illness Federation.

And I’m not ashamed to stand here, in front of six hundred people in this room, and millions more online, and proudly say that I live with mental illness, and that’s okay. I say “with” because even though my mental illness tries its best, it doesn’t control me, it doesn’t define me, and I refuse to be stigmatized by it.

So. My name is Wil Wheaton, and I have Chronic Depression.

It took me over thirty years to be able to say those ten words, and I suffered for most of them as a result. I suffered because though we in America have done a lot to help people who live with mental illness, we have not done nearly enough to make it okay for our fellow travelers on the wonky brain express to reach out and accept that help.

I’m here today to talk with you about working to end the stigma and prejudice that surrounds mental illness in America, and as part of that, I want to share my story with you.

When I was a little kid, probably seven or eight years old, I started having panic attacks. Back then, we didn’t know that’s what they were, and because they usually happened when I was asleep, the adults in my life just thought I had nightmares. Well, I did have nightmares, but they were so much worse than just bad dreams. Night after night, I’d wake up in absolute terror, and night after night, I’d drag my blankets off my bed, to go to sleep on the floor in my sister’s bedroom, because I was so afraid to be alone.

There were occasional stretches of relief, sometimes for months at a time, and during those months, I felt like what I considered to be a normal kid, but the panic attacks always came back, and each time they came back, they seemed worse than before.

When I was around twelve or thirteen, my anxiety began to express itself in all sorts of delightful ways.

I worried about everything. I was tired all the time, and irritable most of the time. I had no confidence and terrible self-esteem. I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone who wanted to be close to me, because I was convinced that I was stupid and worthless and the only reason anyone would want to be my friend was to take advantage of my fame.

This is important context. When I was thirteen, I was in an internationally-beloved film called Stand by Me, and I was famous. Like, really famous, like, can’t-go-to-the-mall-with-my-friends-without-getting-mobbed famous, and that meant that all of my actions were scrutinized by my parents, my peers, my fans, and the press. All the weird, anxious feelings I had all the time? I’d been raised to believe that they were shameful. That they reflected poorly on my parents and my family. That they should be crammed down deep inside me, shared with nobody, and kept secret.

My panic attacks happened daily, and not just when I was asleep. When I tried to reach out to the adults in my life for help, they didn’t take me seriously. When I was on the set of a tv show or commercial, and I was having a hard time breathing because I was so anxious about making a mistake and getting fired? The directors and producers complained to my parents that I was being difficult to work with. When I was so uncomfortable with my haircut or my crooked teeth and didn’t want to pose for teen magazine photos, the publicists told me that I was being ungrateful and trying to sabotage my success. When I couldn’t remember my lines, because I was so anxious about things I can’t even remember now, directors would accuse me of being unprofessional and unprepared. And that’s when my anxiety turned into depression.

(I’m going to take a moment for myself right now, and I’m going to tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime and I’m going to tell all those adults from the past: give this kid a break. He’s scared. He’s confused. He is doing the best he can, and if you all could stop seeing him as a way to put money into your pockets, maybe you could see that he’s suffering and needs help.)
I was miserable a lot of the time, and it didn’t make any sense. I was living a childhood dream, working on Star Trek: The Next Generation, and getting paid to do what I loved. I had all the video games and board games I ever wanted, and did I mention that I was famous?

I struggled to reconcile the facts of my life with the reality of my existence. I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn’t know what. And because I didn’t know what, I didn’t know how to ask for help.

I wish I had known that I had a mental illness that could be treated! I wish I had known that that the way I felt wasn’t normal and it wasn’t necessary. I wish I had known that I didn’t deserve to feel bad, all the time.

And I didn’t know those things, because Mental Illness was something my family didn’t talk about, and when they did, they talked about it like it was something that happened to someone else, and that it was something they should be ashamed of, because it was a result of something they did. This prejudice existed in my family in spite of the ample incidence of mental illness that ran rampant through my DNA, featuring successful and unsuccessful suicide attempts by my relations, more than one case of bipolar disorder, clinical depression everywhere, and, because of self-medication, so much alcoholism, it was actually notable when someone didn’t have a drinking problem.

Now, I don’t blame my parents for how they addressed – or more accurately didn’t address – my mental illness, because I genuinely believe they were blind to the symptoms I was exhibiting. They grew up and raised me in the world I’ve spent the last decade of my life trying to change. They lived in a world where mental illness was equated with weakness, and shame, and as a result, I suffered until I was in my thirties.

And it’s not like I never reached out for help. I did! I just didn’t know what questions to ask, and the adults I was close to didn’t know what answers to give.

I clearly remember being twenty-two, living in my own house, waking up from a panic attack that was so terrifying just writing about it for this talk gave me so much anxiety I almost cut this section from my speech. It was the middle of the night, and I drove across town, to my parents’ house, to sleep on the floor of my sister’s bedroom again, because at least that’s where I felt safe. The next morning, I tearfully asked my mom what was wrong with me. She knew that many of my blood relatives had mental illness, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t connect the dots. “You’re just realizing that the world is a scary place,” she said.

Yeah, no kidding. The world terrifies me every night of my life and I don’t know why or how to stop it.

Again, I don’t blame her and neither should you. She really was doing the best that she could for me, but stigma and the shame is inspires are powerful things.
I want to be very clear on this: Mom, I know you’re going to read this or hear this and I know it’s going to make you upset. I want you to know that I love you, and I know that you did the very best you could. I’m telling my story, though, so someone else’s mom can see the things you didn’t, through no fault of your own.

Through my twenties, I continued to suffer, and not just from nightmares and panic attacks. I began to develop obsessive behaviors that I’ve never talked about in public until right now. Here’s a very incomplete list: I began to worry that the things I did would affect the world around me in totally irrational ways. I would hold my breath underneath bridges when I was driving, because if I didn’t, maybe I’d crash my car. I would tap the side of an airplane with my hand while I was boarding, and tell it to take care of me when I flew places for work, because I was convinced that if I didn’t, the plane would crash. Every single time I said goodbye to someone I cared about, my brain would play out in vivid detail how I would remember this as the last time I saw them. Talking about those memories, even without getting into specifics, is challenging. It’s painful to recall, but I’m not ashamed, because all those thoughts – which I thankfully don’t have any more, thanks to medical science and therapy – were not my fault any more than the allergies that clog my sinuses when the trees in my neighborhood start doin’ it every spring are my fault. It’s just part of who I am. It’s part of how my brain is wired, and because I know that, I can medically treat it, instead of being a victim of it.

One of the primary reasons I speak out about my mental illness, is so that I can make the difference in someone’s life that I wish had been made in mine when I was young, because not only did I have no idea what Depression even was until I was in my twenties, once I was pretty sure that I had it, I suffered with it for another fifteen years, because I was ashamed, I was embarrassed, and I was afraid.

So I am here today to tell anyone who can hear me: if you suspect that you have a mental illness, there is no reason to be ashamed, or embarrassed, and most importantly, you do not need to be afraid. You do not need to suffer. There is nothing noble in suffering, and there is nothing shameful or weak in asking for help. This may seem really obvious to a lot of you, but it wasn’t for me, and I’m a pretty smart guy, so I’m going to say it anyway: There is no reason to feel embarrassed when you reach out to a professional for help, because the person you are reaching out to is someone who has literally dedicated their life to helping people like us live, instead of merely exist.

That difference, between existing and living, is something I want to focus on for a minute: before I got help for my anxiety and depression, I didn’t truly live my life. I wanted to go do things with my friends, but my anxiety always found a way to stop me. Traffic would just be too stressful, it would tell me. It’s going to be a real hassle to get there and find parking, it would helpfully observe. And if those didn’t stop me from leaving my house, there was always the old reliable: What if…? Ah, “What if… something totally unlikely to happen actually happens? What if the plane crashes? What if I sit next to someone who freaks me out? What if they laugh at me? What if I get lost? What if I get robbed? What if I get locked out of my hotel room? What if I slip on some ice I didn’t see? What if there’s an earthquake? What if what if what if what if…

When I look back on most of my life, it breaks my heart that when my brain was unloading an endless pile of what ifs on me, it never asked, “What if I go do this thing that I want to do, and it’s … fun? What if I enjoy myself, and I’m really glad I went?”

I have to tell you a painful truth: I missed out on a lot of things, during what are supposed to be the best years of my life, because I was paralyzed by What If-ing anxiety.

All the things that people do when they are living their lives … all those experiences that make up a life, my anxiety got in between me and doing them. So I wasn’t living. I was just existing.

And through it all, I never stopped to ask myself if this was normal, or healthy, or even if it was my fault. I just knew that I was nervous about stuff, and I worried a lot. For my entire childhood, my mom told me that I was a worry wart, and my dad said I was overly dramatic about everything, and that’s just the way it was.

Except it didn’t have to be that way, and it took me having a full blown panic attack and a complete meltdown at Los Angeles International Airport for my wife to suggest to me that I get help.

Like I said, I had suspected for years that I was clinically depressed, but I was afraid to admit it, until the most important person in my life told me without shame or judgment that she could see that I was suffering. So I went to see a doctor, and I will never forget what he said, when I told him how afraid I was: “Please let me help you.”

I think it was then, at about 34 years-old, that I realized that Mental Illness is not weakness. It’s just an illness. I mean, it’s right there in the name “Mental ILLNESS” so it shouldn’t have been the revelation that it was, but when the part of our bodies that is responsible for how we perceive the world and ourselves is the same part of our body that is sick, it can be difficult to find objectivity or perspective.

So I let my doctor help me. I started a low dose of an antidepressant, and I waited to see if anything was going to change.

And boy did it.

My wife and I were having a walk in our neighborhood and I realized that it was just a really beautiful day – it was warm with just a little bit of a breeze, the birds sounded really beautiful, the flowers smelled really great and my wife’s hand felt really good in mine.

And as we were walking I just started to cry and she asked me, “what’s wrong?”

I said “I just realized that I don’t feel bad and I just realized that I’m not existing, I’m living.”

At that moment, I realized that I had lived my life in a room that was so loud, all I could do every day was deal with how loud it was. But with the help of my wife, my doctor, and medical science, I found a doorway out of that room.

I had taken that walk with my wife almost every day for nearly ten years, before I ever noticed the birds or the flowers, or how loved I felt when I noticed that her hand was holding mine. Ten years – all of my twenties – that I can never get back. Ten years of suffering and feeling weak and worthless and afraid all the time, because of the stigma that surrounds mental illness.

I’m not religious, but I can still say Thank God for Anne Wheaton. Thank God for her love and support. Thank God that my wife saw that I was hurting, and thank God she didn’t believe the lie that Depression is weakness, or something to be ashamed of. Thank God for Anne, because if she hadn’t had the strength to encourage me to seek professional help, I don’t know how much longer I would have been able to even exist, to say nothing of truly living.

I started talking in public about my mental illness in 2012, and ever since then, people reach out to me online every day, and they ask me about living with depression and anxiety. They share their stories, and ask me how I get through a bad day, or a bad week.

Here’s one of the things I tell them:

One of the many delightful things about having Depression and Anxiety is occasionally and unexpectedly feeling like the whole goddamn world is a heavy lead blanket, like that thing they put on your chest at the dentist when you get x-rays, and it’s been dropped around your entire existence without your consent.

Physically, it weighs heavier on me in some places than it does in others. I feel it tugging at the corners of my eyes, and pressing down on the center of my chest. When it’s really bad, it can feel like one of those dreams where you try to move, but every step and every motion feels like you’re struggling to move through something heavy and viscous. Emotionally, it covers me completely, separating me from my motivation, my focus, and everything that brings me joy in my life.
When it drops that lead apron over us, we have to remind ourselves that one of the things Depression does, to keep itself strong and in charge, is tell us lies, like: I am the worst at everything. Nobody really likes me. I don’t deserve to be happy. This will never end. And so on and so on. We can know, in our rational minds, that this is a giant bunch of bullshit (and we can look at all these times in our lives when were WERE good at a thing, when we genuinely felt happy, when we felt awful but got through it, etc.) but in the moment, it can be a serious challenge to wait for Depression to lift the roadblock that’s keeping us from moving those facts from our rational mind to our emotional selves.

And that’s the thing about Depression: we can’t force it to go away. As I’ve said, if I could just “stop feeling sad” I WOULD. (And, also, Depression isn’t just feeling sad, right? It’s a lot of things together than can manifest themselves into something that is most easily simplified into “I feel sad.”)

So another step in our self care is to be gentle with ourselves. Depression is beating up on us already, and we don’t need to help it out. Give yourself permission to acknowledge that you’re feeling terrible (or bad, or whatever it is you are feeling), and then do a little thing, just one single thing, that you probably don’t feel like doing, and I PROMISE you it will help. Some of those things are:

Take a shower.

Eat a nutritious meal.

Take a walk outside (even if it’s literally to the corner and back).

Do something – throw a ball, play tug of war, give belly rubs – with a dog. Just about any activity with my dogs, even if it’s just a snuggle on the couch for a few minutes, helps me.

Do five minutes of yoga stretching.

Listen to a guided meditation and follow along as best as you can.

Finally, please trust me and know that this shitty, awful, overwhelming, terrible way you feel IS NOT FOREVER. It will get better. It always gets better. You are not alone in this fight, and you are OK.

Right now, there is a child somewhere who has the same panic attacks I had, and their parents aren’t getting them help, because they believe it reflects poorly on their parenting to have a child with mental illness. Right now, there is a teenager who is contemplating self harm, because they don’t know how to reach out and ask for help. Right now, there are too many people struggling just to get to the end of the day, because they can’t afford the help that a lot of us can’t live without. But there are also people everywhere who are picking up the phone and making an appointment. There are parents who have learned that mental illness is no different than physical illness, and they’re helping their children get better. There are adults who, like me, were terrified that antidepressant medication would make them a different person, and they’re hearing the birds sing for the first time, because they have finally found their way out of the dark room.

I spent the first thirty years of my life trapped in that dark, loud room, and I know how hopeless and suffocating it feels to be in there, so I do everything I can to help others find their way out. I do that by telling my story, so that my privilege and success does more than enrich my own life. I can live by example for someone else the way Jenny Lawson lives by example for me.

But I want to leave you today with some suggestions for things that we can all do, even if you’re not Internet Famous like I am, to help end the stigma of mental illness, so that nobody has to merely exist, when they could be living.

We can start by demanding that our elected officials fully fund mental health programs. No person anywhere, especially here in the richest country in the world, should live in the shadows or suffer alone, because they can’t afford treatment. We have all the money in the world for weapons and corporate tax cuts, so I know that we can afford to prioritize not just health care in general, but mental health care, specifically.

And until our elected officials get their acts together, we can support organizations like NAMI, that offer low and no-cost assistance to anyone who asks for it. We can support organizations like Project UROK, that work tirelessly to end stigmatization and remind us that we are sick, not weak.

We can remember, and we can remind each other, that there is no finish line when it comes to mental illness. It’s a journey, and sometimes we can see the path we’re on all the way to the horizon, while other times we can’t even see five feet in front of us because the fog is so thick. But the path is always there, and if we can’t locate it on our own, we have loved ones and doctors and medications to help us find it again, as long as we don’t give up trying to see it.

Finally, we who live with mental illness need to talk about it, because our friends and neighbors know us and trust us. It’s one thing for me to stand here and tell you that you’re not alone in this fight, but it’s something else entirely for you to prove it. We need to share our experiences, so someone who is suffering the way I was won’t feel weird or broken or ashamed or afraid to seek treatment. So that parents don’t feel like they have failed or somehow screwed up when they see symptoms in their kids.

People tell me that I’m brave for speaking out the way I do, and while I appreciate that, I don’t necessarily agree. Firefighters are brave. Single parents who work multiple jobs to take care of their kids are brave. The Parkland students are brave. People who reach out to get help for their mental illness are brave. I’m not brave. I’m just a writer and occasional actor who wants to share his privilege and good fortune with the world, who hopes to speak out about mental health so much that one day, it will be wholly unremarkable to stand up and say fifteen words:

My name is Wil Wheaton, I live with chronic depression, and I am not ashamed.

Thank you for listening to me, and please be kind to each other.

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817 thoughts on “My name is Wil Wheaton. I live with chronic Depression, and I am not ashamed.”

  1. Bless you, Wil Wheaton. You make more of a difference than you know. ❤️

  3. Thank you.
    I have anxiety and depression, and so does my kiddo. I get frustrated with her sometimes because I forget that I have 47 years of coping skills compared to her 10. Her meltdowns are flaring up again, what with getting ready to start middle school and changing medications. It’s rough right now, but it won’t be forever. We’ll have clearing sailing for a little while, and that won’t be forever either. I guess that’s why I keep telling her, “I love you all the time.”

  4. Well said Mr. Wheaton!

    If only I could trust members of the medical community not to stigmatize me, or even diagnose me correctly. I simply don’t trust them, their motivations, or their abilities. They’ve gotten too many things completely wrong with me, my wife, and my kids, and I simply can’t bring myself to play neurochemical roulette.

    1. I’m autistic, have ADHD, and feel this really hard. No real comment to leave, just solidarity. Mental illness -and- neurodivergence (that is, conditions where the brain is rewired, rather than ‘something going wrong’) are both misunderstood to the point where it actively harms people rather than helps to go see a professional at times. Sometimes it works out, but far too often it doesn’t.

  5. Thank you so much, Wil, for speaking out about this. We need more people like you and like Jenny Lawson (which, btw, I think y’all should get together and work on a project. Seriously.) to talk openly and honestly about how shitty depression and anxiety can be. I know that because of people like you, who are being more vocal about how shitty mental health care in this country is, I’ve had more courage in my own life to talk openly and honestly about the depression and anxiety I’ve been living with since I was 10 years old. LLAP.

  6. I’m so overwhelmed reading this & I’m not sure what to even say except thank you. Thank you for being an advocate, thank you for being open & honest about your journey. My ex has bipolar & when we first split, I started having panic attacks. You sum up perfectly here how I felt too – why would anyone want to be my friend? Or date me, or love me? I had been so busy taking care of my ex that I didn’t realize how deep in depression I was. And now reading this I’m starting to think that even though my panic attacks are much less frequent, I may still be having some issues because I too worry unnecessarily about things & play the what if game until I convince myself to not do things. I thought this was just a normal introvert thing but now I’m thinking after reading this that it is more & I need help. So thank you for that too.

  7. Oh my god, Wil. The constant loud room. The heaviness. The “what-ifs”. Thank you for putting words to something I’ve felt for most of my life and could never describe. Wow. I’ve missed out on so much because of those feelings.

    I’m thankful for your effort to get this out into the mainstream. There are so many people out there wondering what’s wrong with themselves.

  8. Thank you for sharing this, Will. I hope it’ll reach the people that need these words for themselves and for others that they care for.

  10. Wil, I am reading this at my desk at work and trying not to cry. You will probably never fully know just how much you have helped so many people, including me. I am privileged to have met you and Anne a few times and I think the two of you are the finest people on earth.

    Love, Laurie

  12. Thank you for this. My wife has chronic depression (and a few other things too); I have anxiety. I’m glad you’re speaking out on this.

  16. “Ten years – all of my twenties – that I can never get back. Ten years of suffering and feeling weak and worthless and afraid all the time.”

    I started having depressive episodes when I was 14. I didn’t start getting medical treatment for it until last year, when I was 28. Half my life. My senior year of high school was a haze. I was a wreck in college, and left after 2 years. I spent most of my 20s living in my childhood bedroom, intermittently doing freelance work, but mostly staring at websites I didn’t care about and playing games to distract myself. I didn’t want to leave the house. I didn’t want to see my friends. There were good things and good people in the mix. But it wasn’t a life. My first decade of adulthood, when I should have been exploring all the world’s opportnities, figuring out who I was and what I loved and what was important to me—and living—is gone and will never come back.

    I’m in a good place now and the future is much brighter. I’m grateful for the people and privileges that I lucked into, that gave me the chance, over and over and over, to get out, until I finally took it. But I am angry, and I will always be angry. I will always resent what was taken from me.

  17. Life is hard, no matter how much money you have or how well you appear to be doing. You’re not alone. There are so many of us out there and we are the #metoo millions that nobody cares about. Stay safe kid, your mental health is the most important thing you have and your wide family of fellow members are here for you.

  18. I didn’t think this would affect me, frankly, but it did, and my hat is off to you for being so honest and yet so warm. I believed what you wrote/said here, and please understand that I don’t believe a lot of people when they tell me it’s okay to be depressed or anxious. My Depressive Episodes and Anxiety are comorbidities of autism (they’re not autism, which is another thing that gets misinterpreted!) and sometimes it’s very hard for me to trust people because I’ve been lied to so many times. I don’t get the impression that you lie, and I’m very grateful for that.

  19. I can’t begin to express how I feel about this entry. I remember sleeping on my sister’s floor, too. She was the only one I trusted to keep me safe because my parents thought I was just having nightmares. All theses struggles… I relate so much.

    Thank you for sharing. Because you have told the story of going on anti-depressants before, I finally told my doctor how I felt at the end of last year. I started medication the next day. Two weeks later… I had the lightbulb moment. I woke up, got up to get ready, took a shower, and found myself dressed without the slightest struggle. I sat down on the bed and cried with joy. My husband was so worried. My friends were so worried. And suddenly, it was like the world had light in it again.

    I could write more, but… it’s still pretty tangled from reading your story. Thank you again for sharing. You are doing Good Work.

  21. Thanks, Wil, for continuing to speak about this from the perspective of someone who endured it and finally was prodded (Thanks, Anne!) into dealing with it. Lot of us in our generation grew up with parents cut from the ‘Buck up, little trooper!” cloth as far as dealing with problems like mental health.

    Safe travels, and may your talk go well.

    PS: Before you ask, I’m doing about as OK as I can be under the circumstances. The chemo is working, but I’m on a bit of a break to try to heal up some weirdo abscesses that are a a consequence of the surgery waaay back in December without the chemo inhibiting my healing processes. Honestly, I just need a little dose of Logan’s super-healing mutation, that’ll take care of all of it, right? Oh, wait, that doesn’t exist in the real world. Oh, well, wishful thinking.

  22. Thank you Wil. For speaking up. For doing it with compassion for others. I’m proud to say I follow your posts and learn something everyday. I hope know how much you mean to all of us. And that whatever depression and anxiety tells you, it’s a lie. You matter.

  24. That is a great speech Wil, thank you for these words. (I have a few years that are very hazy and missing the details because it took me time to reach out for help…)

  25. Thanks for speaking up.

    I have been fighting depression for most of my life. It bothers me that far too many people see mental illness as a weakness and taking meds for it somehow wrong or unnatural. It took me at least four tries to find an antidepressant that worked for me. I feel so much better now. (Though I do kinda miss the manic phases. Got a lot done.) I just wish I had gotten help a lot sooner.

    The idea that staying on meds for the rest of your life is somehow bad causes a LOT of damage. Would they say the same to a diabetic? (Probably. People are cruel.) Therapy would have done nothing for me if I hadn’t had the meds to keep my brain stable.

    Glad you found meds that work and people who care enough to help.

  26. Wil, thank you for sharing your story. I too have suffered from depression and anxiety (not sure if chronic, diagnosed different time through the years) and still don’t like to talk about it. Reading your experiences helps.
    By the way, I have been a fan for decades, since Star Trek: The Next Generation. I find myself ( @lunamation ) suddenly blocked from following you on twitter, which I’m sure must be an accident of the the block list or something. I sure would appreciate it if you would correct that and allow me to follow again. Thanks.

  27. Absolutely amazing, Wil. My depression didn’t fully manifest until my early 40s, although looking back I can see early signs all the way back to high school. It got worse a few years ago, and I finally went on anti-depressants. They have helped greatly.

    The only thing I could add from my experience is that men, particularly older men or men who have underlying health issues like diabetes, may also want to have their doctor check their hormone levels, as testosterone replacement therapy may also help. My antidepressants didn’t seem to quite be getting the job done about six months ago, and my doctor put me on TRT – its made a big difference.

    Thank you so much for writing this, Wil – I hope many people will read it and get help.

  28. I don’t cry. And I’m not crying now.. it’s allergies. Yeah.. just pollen.. we have new leaves here.

    Or maybe it’s because your story sounds so similar to mine. Oblivious parents but a long line of self medicating drunks. Panic, Anxiety, Low self esteem. I became depressed at 14. I was 30 when I was diagnosed. It’s been 24 years of on and off meds and therapy. Of almost ups and downs. Chronic depression with bouts of Major depression. Of losing my job due to needing time off for therapy. Then losing my therapist because I couldn’t afford them. Over and over.

    Meds keep me from killing myself.. or anyone else (joke.. but they do stop the anger). But I’m not happy. I exist. I feed and walk the dog. I raised “my” kids.. they are various stages of college and workforce. I’ve been married for twenty years.. but with several false starts before I found him. I am the family disgrace, I had a cousin once tell me she was glad I was around.. because compared to me, she was perfect. I take care of everyone else. I cook. I clean litterboxes. It gives me a purpose. But it can’t make me happy.

    According to the internet and various family members.. it’s my attitude. Smile and you will feel better. Fake it till you make it. I don’t even know how to ‘fake it’ anymore. One of these days I’m going to stop planning my suicide accidents and just grab the handgun out of the safe.

    But not today. Thanks Wil.

    1. Please don’t do that…. remember depression lies…
      You have people who love you

    2. I wish I could go have coffee with you, because everything you wrote is me, too. I am living the same life.

  29. Thank you Wil. This is amazing and brought tears to my eyes. I’ve also been living with chronic depression for a good part of my life. And then about 5 years ago, my diagnosis changed to bipolar. Carrie Fisher was always the person I looked up to for how to deal with both the depression and the bipolar. I’ve been suicidal and hospitalized. I learned there to always speak out about my experiences. To fight the stigma. For all the self-doubt depression brought me, I never really cared if people liked me. Or maybe that’s part of the depression–I have no idea. So thank you for using your voice and your platform to speak about an issue that is so very important. It means so very much to me. Especially coming from someone I think is as fantastic as you are.

  31. Thank you.
    There’s other things I want to say, but don’t have the words.
    So for now,
    thank you.

  32. Wil,

    Thank you. I deal with all the same stuff, but again, I should be happy. I’m former military, I’ve done some amazing things while in the service, I dropped out of high school and college, but I’m also a registered investment advisor, and have managed A LOT of money (so successful-ish), and now since my last company terminated me due to my conditions (dealing with the EEOC right now), I’ve been able to focus on a childhood dream of playing video games for an audience on Twitch, and maybe being able to support myself doing it, but I’m Bryan and I have chronic depression, social anxiety disorder, general anxiety disorder, and PTSD. I as well am NOT ashamed. I use my stream/channel/voice to be open and honest with folks about my conditions because it’s not right to push down the things you feel, and there’s nothing wrong with it. Through my honesty I know of at least 5 people who have gone to therapy because they realized if I can do it, and be ok with it, why the hell shouldn’t they do it? I think that’s my biggest accomplishment lately.

    I just want to thank you for giving a public and intelligent voice to our issues. The fact that so many people refuse to just admit that being a CIS-Hetero Male who has these types of issues is OK, is what’s holding this back. That’s not at all to say that regardless of your identity that you shouldn’t feel comfortable talking to someone about this, the stigma for us can be a little rough. So couple all of your influence in various communities, especially the geek community where the majority of our time is as shut ins and cast outs anyway, I can’t be more proud of the direction you’re helping us go.

    I wasn’t really a fan of you as an actor, but as a fucking human you’re brilliantly amazing.

    Bryan

  33. Thank you. Thank you for using your platform to help end the stigma. I have lived with depression for pretty much my entire life, and PTSD for most of it. I spent decades fighting with addiction. I’m OK now (most of the time, anyway) thanks to medical science.

    I love your work, BTW. Sometimes when things get tough now I put on your reading of Ready Player One, and it often helps for a while. THanks for that, too.

  34. ‘There is no reason to feel embarrassed when you reach out to a professional for help, because the person you are reaching out to is someone who has literally dedicated their life to helping people like us live, instead of merely exist.’

    ‘So I went to see a doctor, and I will never forget what he said, when I told him how afraid I was: “Please let me help you.” ‘

    If only we were all so lucky. I have never felt worse than the last time I tried to get help. I have never felt more dehumanised than when I finally reached out, after a decade of suffering, and was brushed off as an inconvenience. Two years on and I still haven’t been able to ask again.

    1. You don’t know me, but please, as someone else who’s dealt with similar things, I urge you to ask. Somehow, sometime when you’re able; please don’t stop trying to ask. Help is out there. I promise.

  35. Hey Wil, thank you for sharing this and helping me through this day.

    I’ve lived a pretty much perfect live for 31 years and, one night three eternal months ago, my blood pressure spiked and life went away.
    I’ve been checked for almost everything physical by now (endocrine stuff is this weekend, so wish me luck!), but I fought (seems there’s an abyss between how physical and mental health are treated too in Argentina) and got to be derived to a therapist almost immediately to avoid wasting time.

    Now I’m living on small doses of anxiolytics while trying to cope with this new reality.
    I’ve heard the birds and felt the breeze for all of my life and now I spend my grey days getting worried about how and where will I sleep tonight.

    Now I’m being asked about changing this small bit of xanax for something more powerful.
    The fear of changing is strong, but I’m closer now to letting them help me and it’s thanks to your words.

    Peace!

  36. Years ago when I went to my doc and told him I was angry all the time, and I just wanted to hit someone, he said I was suffering from a hormone imbalance, and prescribed me a medication, which I filled. When I got home and showed the pills to my husband, who is a medic, and told him what the doc said, he told me they were antidepressants. I was shocked, because the doc did not say a word about me being depressed. The pills worked. I’m sorry you went through that Wil. All of us are proud of you and your wife. You do good work son. Keep it up. Take care.

  37. Thank you.
    My “I’m not just existing, I’m living” moment came when I could actually taste banana again. It was glorious! At almost fifty years of age, you keep popping into my life just at the right time; this article right now, Next Gen (I was an unabashed Wesley fan), and Stand By Me was the first movie I took a girl to (it was my third viewing!) I’m not glad you live with chronic depression, but I’m so very glad you’re STILL Wil Wheaton, and you’re not ashamed!
    Thanks from Tasmania.

  39. Thank you for speaking up. I too will never forget how the meds I took lifted off a dark weight and let me see the world again just like you describe. It was hard for me to ask for help, too, but I am glad I did and learned to see it was not a weakness but a physical problem in my brain I was not responsible for. I hope you have many more wonderful walks with your wife!

  40. Thank you SO much for coming forward! You are helping to reduce the stigma!

  41. Hi Wil,
    I just really, really wanted to thank you for writing your piece about struggling with depression and anxiety.

    I’ve walked a similar path and then got hit for 6 by PND on top.
    I’ve tried to turn it all around by focussing on training my camels for therapy sessions with those in need- predominantly aimed towards at risk kids, teens who self harm and others with mental illness and depression.

    Through that purpose I’ve been able to speak about it all more openly, but before then was always afraid of the stigma that attaches to any form of mental illness. Its helped some people in my own small circle, so I know just how important you sharing your story with your large circle is.

    Ironically, to match your wonky brain, I actually have a camel named Wonky 🤣🐪

    Should you ever find yourself near Melbourne in Aus, feel free to pop in for camel cuddles and a cuppa. We have a mad games room too 😂😉

    Thanks again,
    Kaila ❤

    https://www.facebook.com/byjingoesgrove/

  42. I suffered depression starting my senior year of high school, and have battled it ever since. My saving grace was my incessant need for reading material, when I happened upon meditation. I tried it, and it gave me a certain “centering” mechanism that allowed me to cope with it. Never cured, mind you, and I only saw a doctor once about it twenty years later (carbs are your friend, she said … heh … never went back to her).

    I am now a single father of a 10-year old, who used to watch your YT tabletop videos which gave us our wonderfully close Friday-night tabletop adventures (he LOVED Castle Panic and Tsuro). I’ll soon be introducing him to D&D (5e for simplicity, but 1e eventually for purity’s sake!).

    I still suffer from depression, but I’ve been able to mitigate it (unlike so many others) by very careful evaluations of my life each and every day (I literally wake up each and every morning asking myself why I need to still live … my son is first on my list). I found a … formula? ritual? … it’s like a 12-step system that ultimately convinces me that I need to stay alive. It works for me right now. It’s not easy, and there are days when I sometimes just want to give up, but my son is my driving factor in life. There is a LOT to be said about the Ripple Effect others have upon you, like children or spouses. It will never entirely negate the experience, and I advise everyone to seek professional help and medication … I almost wrote “if needed,” but seriously, a doctor should be your FIRST attempt at dealing with this kind of illness, and if you are NOT satisfied with what a doctor says, always seek a second opinion (which I failed to do … I lacked healthcare back then, so couldn’t afford it … heck, I STILL don’t have healthcare 🙁 Obamacare, as much as I supported it, was still outside of affordability for me and my son. Three words: Single Payer Healthcare!!!!).

    I have to say, you are an eloquent writer more than anything else you’ve accomplished in your life. I love all your movies and TV series, but it is your writing that has kept me here (though I don’t post often). Our particular corner of the world (this geeky corner that isn’t so geeky anymore) is much better for us with you being present and active, and saying the tough things that America needs to hear.

    If you ever get out to Dallas, TX, I want to shake your hand for everything that you’ve done, tackling the tough subjects, as well as the family-time you inspire. And I want my son to shake your hand too, and know that you’ve made a ripple in the pond that affects a great many of us. I hope I’ve taught him well-enough to recognize your contributions to society (not only in gaming, but in other avenues as well).

    You are a wonderful person, and I’m grateful for your presence. Keep fighting the good fight. And know that I, my son, and millions of others who grew up with you love you for your honesty. You put yourself out there, where some of us can’t, and we adore you for that.

  43. I fought acknowledging my issues until someone was finally able to give a name and description that made sense. PTSD.

    At first I thought they were insane… that only happens to soldiers, victims, survivors etc.

    So they asked me to recount a good memory. I drew a blank. Nearly 30 years of memories and I couldn’t recall one.

    Then they asked to recall a bad memory and they came flooding in. Followed by tears and sobs and all the emotions and sounds that happened with them.

    It fit. It made sense. The symptoms were boxes that just checked neatly with what I was feeling. That and anxiety and depression. I didn’t feel broken any more. It had a name and i could deal with that.

    It took me another 7 years before I was comfortable enough to consider and be willing to try medication. I started those 5 months ago. We’re still finding the right size and what but I definitely have noticed a significant improvement since starting them.

    My son’s father and I have both been very open about our mental issues with our son as he has sadly seen first hand how they can affect the people you love.

    2. Thank you so much. I have two teens suffering and I always think that it’s helpful for them to see that they aren’t alone and have had the same experiences as many other people who have come out on the other side of it. Love the allergies analogy, way better than my diabetes analogy I think, especially when it comes to panic attacks. Keep doing this work. It’s important.

    3. I don’t have PTSD, I’m autistic, but that feeling of “my sh#t has a name” matters SO MUCH. I’m incredibly glad that you’re at least to that point and hope life continues to improve for you.

  44. Thank you for this. Thank you so much for this. You’re one of the reasons I’ve finally started taking steps to get better, after trying (and failing) to deal with depression and anxiety since I was a teen. I’m almost 42. I know there’s a very long way to go and it scares the crap out of me, and I know it’s going to be hard. I’ve already had moments when I’ve felt like this isn’t going to work and there was no point, and knowing that eventually I’ll have to try a different medication, or talk to a different councellor (I have my first appointment with one next thursday and I’m terrified), also scares me… but I’m doing it, and the courage and support you show and give to others has helped me get here. And I try hard to do the same for someone if I see them struggling.

    Your openness about your mental health and the support and love you show your fans about theirs means so much. Thank you.

  47. While genetic factors no doubt accounted for the tendency towards depression and anxiety, trying live and work in an adult world where you were expected to match the work ethic and stamina of individuals 20+ years older than you without strong and active parental support is ludicrous. To end up being a functional adult living for years with another adult (still quite functional), raising 2 children now also functioning adults is a stat analogous to winning a national lottery. Every day that sees your participation is another victory. Congratulations…survival is no easy board game.

  48. Great inspiration! We need to erase the stigma! Thank you for speaking UP!!!!

  49. Jenny Lawson is a lifesaver. Her attitude pulls me up as I realize we have the same sense of humor and skewed worldview. I’m glad you’ve found her!

  50. I wept aloud as I read this. I am nearly 65 years old, and it wasn’t until about 8 years ago that I came to terms with my own mental illness. And this was only after both of my adult children, who suffer with anxiety and depression, told me that I needed to get help, that I didn’t need to suffer any longer. I’m on medication, which helps a great deal, but nothing cures this illness. It only helps us manage it.
    I speak out all the time on social media to my friends and family and tell them about my illness, as you did, and for the same reasons. I don’t tell my story to get attention or sympathy. Just like you, I tell my story so that others who are suffering know they are not alone, and that they can get help and life can get easier. And that people who don’t have mental illness can understand us, and that the stigma of mental illness can some day be a faint memory. Thank you, Wil. You have touched my heart.

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