From A Series of Unfortunate Events DVD commentary track.
if you haven’t watched this film with the commentary then you are missing out, it’s hilarious. “Lemony Snicket” was completely unhappy with the film and wanted no real part of it and so in the commentary he just fucks about. Seriously, at one point he gets out an accordion and drowns out the director with his playing
"nearly all of my life"
Lemony Snicket sass is what I aspire to in life.
"Lemony Snicket" (Dan Handler) was asked if he liked the movie.
He said “I love the movie as much as someone who wrote 8 drafts of a movie before being fired from his own creation could possibly be.”
The man’s life is sarcasm and it’s beautiful.
Telling my mum that I suffer from depression is like pulling teeth from a stone, it just doesn’t fucking work.
I’ve had depression since I hit puberty about 8 or 9 years ago, and it flows and ebbs in me like the tide: some weeks I’ll be better, some months it hits me full force. But whatever I do, it’s always there, lurking in the background of everything I do or think.
So I decided that I’d had enough of living with it by myself, without any help, and plucked ip the courage to ask my mum what our doctor’s name was and the phone number. It wasn’t something that I enjoyed doing, but it was of course necessary. I wanted to be open with her, and I wanted her support, and I didn’t feel like hiding behind the lies of “yeah, I’m alright” and “no no, it’s probably just my hormones playing up again.”.
What I didn’t expect was for her to argue with me about my own state of mind. “But you’ve been fine this whole summer! It must be because your friends have gone to uni, you must just be stressed about finding a job, why don’t you get up and do something productive, that’ll make you better.”
Yes, these are contributing factors, and yes, I am stressed out about finding a job and getting the hell outta dodge, but they’re not the bigger picture. They’re not the voice that whispers hate to me every day, they’re not the suicidal thoughts I’ve had for years, they’re not the pit of fucking loathing that I’ve fallen into and can’t get out of.
So I tell her that I’m going to the doctors, and she gets this dubious look about her, and I start to feel so angry. How dare she judge me for my broken mind? How dare she sit there like nothing is wrong when all these years I’ve been the one helping her through her own troubles? How dare she make me out to be the bad person when I decline her hugs because sometimes I can’t stand human contact?
So I try to tamp it down and explain to her what’s been going on; how every day I wake up and wonder if today is the day I finally work up the nerve to slit my wrists, how I feel dissociated from reality, how sometimes I find it hard to make myself believe that everything isn’t just one big illusion.
And she says “Don’t be stupid. Are you sure you’re not just exaggerating things?”.
I know mother that it must be hard to see your own child suffering, to feel helpless when you can’t put a plaster on their psyche, to see a reflection of yourself when you see me lying in bed with no motivation, no passion, nothing but a pressing weight on my chest that screams why can’t you just be better? Look at these bad decisions that you’ve made. Why even bother with anything?
But don’t fucking push it under the carpet like an unsightly mould stain. Don’t play it off as a ‘bad day, everyone has them’. Don’t try and tell me what I should and should not be feeling.
It’s one thing to be feeling helpless, but it’s entirely different to being made to feel bad about making others feel bad about you feeling bad.