Last week I fell into panic mode. It started with intense chest pains each time I logged on to Facebook to check the groups I belong to as well as scroll through my main feed. Each visit became shorter as the physical symptoms of anxiety and depression overwhelmed rational thought. By Tuesday I had a full-blown anxiety attack and needed my mom to watch Sienna lest my little girl see me hysterically crying; screaming, “It’s all crashing down! It’s all crashing down!” while I sat against a wall, head in my hands. What exactly was crashing down is meaningless in hindsight because of the utter absurdity of the thoughts careening through my head: I suck; I’ll never be as good as HIM; I’m a failure; My family would be better off without me; I’ll never be successful enough. I’ve invented enormous expectations for myself thanks to those placed on me as a kid by family and school.

On Tuesday I wrote a message in a dad bloggers group to which I belong that indicated I was giving up on Facebook and leaving the group because I believed I’d never reach an elite blogging level that would lead to sponsored campaigns, TV appearances, and going viral. My post elicited a bunch of worried comments, phone calls and IMs that I ignored because I felt I didn’t deserve them. I believed myself to be an outsider, a kid not invited to a birthday party. I spent most of the next three days in bed with Elaine and my parents watching Sienna. I stuttered my way through therapy, but found no relief. I didn’t fully recover until Saturday or Sunday and now I’m slowly getting back on Facebook, but I need to limit myself because I still get chest pains, though minor at the moment.

Just imagine – a huge anxiety attack followed by three days in bed feeling pathetic, insufficient, alienated and even suicidal all because of the thoughts triggered by a social media platform.

That is depression mixed with Facebook.

Facebook and its impact on mental health has been researched for years. Multiple studies have shown that the amount of time and the ways in which people use the social media platform can, in fact, lead to depression. The University of Missouri, for example, released a study in 2015 indicating Facebook causes feelings of envy which can in turn lead to depression, but what if the user already has this overwhelming, narcissistic, mentally and physically taxing disease? In order to illustrate how dangerous Facebook can be for depression sufferers for those that don’t have the disease – and to reinforce you are NOT alone for those that do – here are five major effects Facebook has had on me.

1)   Isolation – Depression is an isolating disease because you spend your life horrifically alone in your head. Imagine being in a room filled with friends, family and loved ones and still feeling utterly lost and abandoned. Now compound that with staring alone at a screen reading about other people’s lives, hoping and waiting for someone to comment on or like something you wrote. This can trigger a sense of bleakness to the nth degree in a depression sufferer.

Even more interactive Facebook components such as participating in a discussion or conversing via IM can have detrimental effects. The people with whom you’re interacting are flesh and blood, but they’re not physically in your presence; online they’re wisps in the wind. If they’re “Facebook Friends” and nothing more, they can be reminders of the lack of closeness in your life – whether real or perceived. My two best friends, for instance, live in Maryland and Florida while I’m in New York. Each time I interact with them on Facebook it’s like a piercing reminder that they live hundreds of miles from me and I’m lucky to see them in person a couple of times a year. When I close the computer I’m almost immediately punched by a deep sadness increasing my loneliness on the friendship front.

2)   Comparison Game – Depression sufferers almost always reflexively play the “comparison game” in almost every form of life. They devote huge amounts of energy in measuring themselves against others and irrationally coming up lacking. It’s an awful form of pessimism, fixation and envy. Combine that with Facebook and this damaging “game” worsens. Such aggrieved people see a friend excitedly announce a new job on Facebook and think, “Why not me? I’m worthless,” and off down the rabbit hole they go. Logically they know all they’re doing is feeding the disease, but this isn’t a rational game.

This is the depression aspect that most afflicts me. I log on to Facebook, see that a friend from elementary school’s just bought a new house, look around my small apartment and lament that I have so little financially – this despite knowing I have a beautiful, loving wife, an incredible daughter, and a great deal of caring friends and family. I chastise myself for not having the money to provide my family with a house. I hate myself for not being able to afford the “American Dream.”

My thoughts, my unrelenting self-thrashings, happen so quickly that it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I see words or pictures and within seconds my chest hurts and my hands tremble. I compare myself to other dad bloggers. I look at their poetic writing styles, book publications, television appearances, viral posts, brand campaign invitations, and I feel miniscule. Does it matter that they’ve been blogging for five years compared to my two? Do I think about how their kids might be older than Sienna giving them more time to blog, to spend on Facebook, to make names for themselves? Do I think about my own accomplishments as a blogger? No. Instead my self-loathing increases; the disease digs its talons even deeper into my brain.

The comparison game is also addicting. Sometimes I spend hours on the site scrolling trough post after post, my feelings of inadequacy intensifying to the point where I’m on the verge of tears. Yet I’m unable to stop until Elaine, seeing my pain, slams shut the computer for me. I’ve yet to find a way out of this trap, to avoid this trigger. I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy trying to figure out a way – deep breaths, shouting at myself that I’m being absurd, snapping myself with a rubber band each time I have a negative thought – but it remains troublesome. Hopefully my therapist and I will figure out something that works for me.

3)   Fantasy/Reality – Piggybacking on the comparison game is the fact that Facebook posts never show the full story. That friend who got the new job might have marital issues or suffer severe debt. The friend who bought the new house might be alcoholic or abusive. In my experience, the majority of Facebook users post only things of a positive nature, but a depressed person cannot see this and instead takes everything at face value. If so and so bought a house she must have everything she wants in life. She’s better than me. If so and so got a new job he’s clearly rolling in dough compared to my living check-to-check. He made it. I didn’t.

Depression fills in the blanks with fantasy allowing absurdity to consume truth. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent envying friends’ Facebook lives only to find out they’re unhappy beyond the screen. And while these revelations might help get me to see reality initially, depression refuses to lift its boot from my neck. It pushes harder than before forcing me to expend so much energy in reminding myself that what I’m reading or seeing isn’t real that eventually I give out. I move on to someone else and that awful jealousy over what may just be a happy mask returns with a vengeance.

4)   Arbitrary Numbers – Like all social media platforms, Facebook is a numbers game. How many friends do you have? How many people commented on your post or picture? How many likes did your video get? If you suffer depression and receive few comments or likes on a picture or post, you’re predisposed to taking it personally – they didn’t like it so they don’t like me. Rarely does it enter the brain that people might not have seen it or are too busy to comment.

Further, people with the disease are inclined to “collect” Facebook friends even if they don’t like the person. This happened to me when I friended someone I thought I was close with between elementary and high school. Truth is, he was always an arrogant jerk who often belittled me. After a year of him ignoring me, making snarky comments and untagging himself from pictures of the two of us, I decided to unfriend him, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Something in my head told me I deserved this humiliation. It took me months to finally do it and when I did, when I finally pressed that key as my fingers trembled and tears streamed down my cheeks, it felt like less like relief than failure.

But the worst Facebook numbers game (at least for me) is how many people send birthday greetings. I always send out birthday wishes figuring it takes just a few moments of time to bring a smile to someone’s face, and while I know I shouldn’t expect it in return, I do anyway. Each year I’m afraid to check Facebook until because I think I might jinx something. Usually I get 100+ birthday wishes which is nice, but still bugs me. Remember, depression is narcissistic. This year I discovered that only 36 out of my 600+ Facebook friends sent me birthday wishes. The sheer grief, the magnitude of self-hatred I felt in that moment sent me spiraling. I wound up bawling in my Elaine’s arms. It didn’t matter that all of the most important people in my world called me nor did I care that Sienna was able to understand and wish me happy birthday for the first time in her life. Only 36 people sent me sent birthday greetings on Facebook!

Depression is like living with blinders on. You can’t see the good, only the bad. Hence I was obsessed with my other 500+ Facebook friends. Why didn’t THEY wish me a happy birthday? I cried myself to sleep that night thinking of numbers: 36 out of 600+. It turned out that during one of its upgrades Facebook changed my birthday to private which explains why I received so few posts. And while that revelation made me feel a little better, the sting still lingered. It’s absolutely insane that I disregarded the real life love I received on my birthday from my best friends, my family, my wife, my daughter while pining for birthday wishes from online friends, many of whom I barely know, but that’s what the disease does. Arbitrary numbers and depression mix about as well as onions and milk.

5)   Falling Behind – It’s impossible to keep up with Facebook because people are always posting one thing or another. Thus it’s highly plausible that as a user, you’re going to miss cool pictures, announcements or humorous posts. And the more friends you have, the more you’re going to miss. When faced with this, depression sufferers often feel like they’re falling behind which leads to guilt that they’re letting their friends and family down.

This happens to me constantly. I scroll and scroll and scroll, but I just can’t keep up. It feels like I’m in a race running through thick mud as the finish line moves further and further away. Negative thoughts bombard me – What did I miss? Will my friend hate me because I didn’t like a picture of his kids or comment on his post? What if I missed a birthday? What if someone said they were having a baby? I CAN’T KEEP UP!!!

And then the debilitating guilt and fear and the horrid, selfish aspect of depression set in. I’m letting people down. My friend will hate me because I didn’t comment on their post about their daughter’s first word. They’re not going to like something I post out of spite. They’re going to forget me, unfriend me, even banish me from a group. It’s a vicious cycle because the more I spiral, the less I check Facebook and the more I “fall behind.” And even though I know it’s illogical, I have immense trouble stopping my depression from ensnaring me in its massive grip.

These are just five reasons why Facebook can be dangerous for those suffering from depression taken from my own experiences with the platform and disease. I’m sure there are many more. If you’re on Facebook and suffer depression, what aspects do you find exacerbate your mental illness?

Hopefully the start of an ongoing series, here’s a podcast Christopher Persley​ of The Brown Gothamite​ and I did for City Dads Group​ about pop culture dads. In our first episode we tackle “black-ish”. Chris and I got lucky in that we were able to ask Anthony Anderson some questions as well. Whit Honea​  of Honea Express​ adds some commentary at the end. Check it out! Very proud of it! Please let us know what you think! You can find it here!

Toddlers come with many rules. Think Gremlins on steroids. I’ve gotten the major ones down: don’t not toddler-proof your home; don’t expect your children to remain angels upon turning 2 or 3 because tantrums will come when you least expect them; don’t think your kid’s going to eat that peanut butter and jelly sandwich she asked for – she really just wants to watch you squirm when she takes 1 bite and demands yogurt instead. But there’s one rule, one that’s insanely integral to child-rearing that you don’t even think about it until after you’ve experienced its dire consequences: no matter how tired you are never unwittingly fall asleep on the floor while playing with your kid. It happened to me. Don’t let it happen to you.

I awoke confused, face itchy and red from the carpet, drool still sliding down my cheek. Sienna wasn’t in the living room where I lay amongst books, Sesame Street figurines, superhero action figures and too many blocks to count. I stood up, rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock on my phone. Forty-five minutes. I’d been conked out on the floor, dead to the world, for 45 minutes whilst my child had the run of the place.

“Sienna!!” I called, looking around to see if anything was broken. Outside of the mess my daughter and I had created prior to my unexpected nap, the living room looked pristine. That’s when I should have known I was in for something bad, but instead I felt like I’d dodged a bullet.

“Sienna!!” I called again, walking down the hall to the kitchen where I found only our cat, Gleeb, in a perfectly clean room. Was it me or did he have a look of fear in his eyes?

Not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. Both my daughter’s bedroom and our bedroom’s doors were closed and she’d yet to master the childproof plastic things we’d placed on the front door knob which meant she there was just one more place she could be – the bathroom.

Now, we usually close the bathroom door, but for some reason I’d forgotten to the last time I used the…um…potty. Maybe it was because I was so tired. Maybe I was in a rush to get back to playing with Sienna. I don’t know why I didn’t close it and so I throw myself on the mercy of the court of fellow parents. Wait…I don’t have to do that. You know. You already know.

I heard something ripping from just beyond the partially opened door.

Please tell me she just tore up a roll of toilet paper. It can’t be that bad.

I opened the door and found my smiling daughter standing on the toilet gleefully tearing open one of my wife’s tampons.

“Daddy!!” she yelled. “You awake!!”

She threw the partially opened tampon on the floor or what was now, basically, a garbage dump. It was if my bathroom vomited – cotton pads, Q-Tips, mouthwash, toilet paper and my wife’s assorted creams, cleansers, make-up removers, lotions, gels and myriad of different tampons littered the floor. Since our bathroom is so small I literally could not see the floor tiles.

Sienna’s bathroom destruction

I sighed deeply, my body deflating as I contemplated how much work lay ahead, knowing it was all my fault. I broke a rule.

“Daddy!” Sienna said. “Look what I did!” Her beautiful face shone with the cheerfulness only associated with a toddler who knew she got away with something.

“It’s beautiful, sweetie. Now let’s clean up.” How could I chastise her when it was my fault for falling asleep?

“Okay!!!” she said, jumping from the toilet.

I opened the closet across from the bathroom, grabbed a plastic bag and began the tedious job of placing each bottle back on the shelf, trying to figure out which tampon went in which box (I gave up after a couple of attempts) and playing 500-Q-Tip pick-up. I have to say Sienna was quite helpful, I have to say. I also have to say that I was thrilled all of the bottles seemed closed, that the floor wasn’t a mess of gels and lotions.

That was until Gleeb walked in and I saw his matted fur.

“Oh no,” I said. “Oh no no no no!”

“What is it, Daddy?”

“Oh boy.”

I reached down, felt Gleeb’s gray and black back and sure enough, the poor thing was covered in some mysterious cream. I wasn’t imagining things. That WAS fear in his eyes!

“Sienna?” I asked, knowing full well the answer to my question. “Did you cover Gleeb with cream?”

“No,” she said sweetly.

“You didn’t?”

“No.” She smiled. “Gleeb has cream?”

“He does and now we need to give him a bath and this is not gonna be fun.”

I put tied the now full bag, closed the door, started the tub, and picked up a clearly frightened Gleeb who immediately started clawing the air and my arms. Sienna stood by watching.

I placed Gleeb beneath the faucet and then came the howls, nay screams as the poor cat thrashed in the shallow water like a drowning victim.

“What’s wrong with Gleeb?” asked Sienna.

“You know how you love to sit in the bath and splash?” I said. “Cats clean themselves with their tongues. Most cats hate getting actual baths.”

With one hand holding Gleeb, I slathered shampoo on the poor cat with the other. Sienna stuck her head past me so she should get a better look.

“Bubbles!” she said happily, ignoring my bleeding arms and the terrified cat now so soaked he looked like he’d lost 5 pounds.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Bubbles.”

I did my best to get all the cream off Gleeb’s fur, turned off the faucet and covered the trembling cat with a towel. I dried him as best as I could and released him into the hall so he could lick his wounds. I’d have to worry about my own later.

Now even more thoroughly exhausted from cleaning the bathroom and cat than I was before my surprise nap, I carried Sienna back to the living room thinking about this new rule I’d have to deal with each day as a stay-at-home dad – never, ever, under ANY circumstances, accidentally fall asleep on the floor while playing with your child.

I’m proud to announce that around June 1, 2015, just in time for Father’s Day, I’ll have 2 stories featured in Dads Behaving Dadly 2: 72 More Truths, Tears and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood”.  I was honored having 2 stories featured in volume 1 and I’m even more so getting 2 in volume 2 considering the competition was that much fiercer. Many thanks to co-editors, Hogan Hilling and Al Watson! Will post more updates as they become available.

Sometimes the groundhog is unrelenting. Sometimes he refuses to talk Old Man Winter out of releasing us North Easterners from his icy grips despite the turn of the calendar. It snowed on the first day of the spring here in New York, a day usually earmarked for rebirth and the end of winter’s cruelty. But instead 3-5 inches fell from a dull white sky. Still it was a special day for Sienna turned 3 on that snowy first day of spring…and turning age 3 is both magical and full of curveballs.

We held a large party for Sienna’s first birthday at my parents’ house. Few kids attended, but we were surrounded by friends and loved ones who laughed as Sienna painted her confused face with chocolate cake. We didn’t do much of anything for Sienna’s second birthday. I think we went out to dinner to celebrate, but honestly, I cannot recall for “birthday” still meant nothing in Sienna’s mind. But it did this year. I’m sure if she completely grasped what “birthday” means but she knew it was a momentous occasion revolving around her and that was enough.

“You know what’s coming up on Friday,” I asked?

“My birthday!!” Sienna gleefully yelled, emanating so much excitement she probably glowed in the dark.

“And what does a birthday mean?”

“Presents!”

“What else?”

“Balloons! Cake!”

“What type of cake do you want?”

“Chocolate!” she said, stretching the word out so I could fully understand her desire. She might as well have drooled, jaw wide open à la Homer Simpson.

“Do you want ice cream cake or regular cake?”

“Regular!”

“I guess we’ll have to see what happens,” I said with a wink.

Now, I don’t want my daughter to always associate all of these superficial things with birthdays, but I have no problem with it at age 3 for I felt just as much, if not more, ebullience as Sienna. I’d gone to Toys ‘R Us and picked up a bunch of little things for her to open including some Doc McStuffins and Mickey Mouse stickers, but also Iron Man and Captain America action figures (both Elaine and I want Sienna to inherit our nerdiness) to join her beloved Hulk. On my recommendation, my parents picked up a set of 100 Picasso Tiles (a less expensive, but just as wonderful version of Magna Tiles) that I knew Sienna would love since she enjoys building but isn’t quite ready for little LEGO pieces. We didn’t plan a party – no bouncy houses, no other kids. Elaine and I figured we had one more year to have Sienna all to ourselves before we had to deal with shelling out hundreds of dollars for a noisy, chaotic fête. Instead there’d be cupcakes at school, small presents at home, dinner and a more presents at my parents house and then 2 days later, a small celebration with our extended family. But sometimes a curveball throws off even the best planning.

The morning of Sienna’s birthday was perfect despite the snowy forecast. As with all school days, I woke her up, but this time I grinned widely and said, “Happy birthday sweet Sienna!”

“It’s my birthday!” she said, sleep melting from her eyes quicker than I’ve ever seen.

“That it is! Let’s eat and get dressed and get you to school where you can have cupcakes and everyone will sing ‘Happy Birthday!'”

We arrived at her classroom, cupcakes in hand only to discover the place was near empty. Three or four kids sat playing with toy cars or blocks, but I’d never seen the place so barren.

“Hi birthday girl!” her teacher, Miss Joanne, said placing a purple crown decorated with glitter spelling out “Sienna” and “3” on my daughter’s head. Sienna smiled broadly and fingered the crown.

I gave gave Miss Joanne the cupcakes and learned that 7 of the 12 kids were home sick with the stomach flu. Elaine herself has suffered all week from a similar illness, though we’re not sure if it was a stomach flu or food poisoning. Either way it landed her in the ER because of the pain. But Sienna still had the crown and the cupcakes and enough kids to sing, so that was unfortunate, but ok.

The birthday girl at school wearing her purple crown

The rest of the day went as planned. Sienna came home and opened her little gifts with an intensity that would probably scare off a few people. Seriously, the girl was so into unwrapping each present that I had to keep asking her to smile. But she loved each one, especially Iron Man and Captain America. She ran to get her Hulk figure and had me pretend to be both Iron Man and Cap while she voiced the Hulk. I explained that while Iron Man could fly and the Hulk could jump really high, Captain America’s power was super strength, so she solved that problem by sprinkling him with pixie dust (“Pixie dust away!” for all you “Jake and the Never Land Pirate” fans). We had a great time playing and enjoying ourselves as the afternoon bled into evening. Time to head to my parents. .

We walked outside into a spring world of pure white snow, Sienna happily catching flakes with her tongue.

“Daddy, you have to clean the car, Daddy.”

“I know, but don’t worry. It shall be done.”

I cleaned off the car and off we went to my parents’ house for meaning it was time to head to my parents’ house for eggplant parmigana, chocolate cake and of course, more presents. Balloons greeted Sienna as we walked through the door along with grinning grandparents. I think, like Elaine and myself, they shared our enthusiasm Sienna had started to understand the birthday concept.

The Picasso Tiles were an enormous hit as I’d expected. They’re colorful, magnetic and so easy to use. Sienna and Elaine built tower after tower with both fervor and deep concentration only for Sienna to suddenly grab the Hulk, yell, “Hulk smash!” and completely demolish their creations. I couldn’t have been more proud.

Sienna deeply considering where to place the next Picasso Tile

There is one thing to mention before we get to the cake, the candles and the singing. When I was at the Dad 2.0 Summit in San Francisco less than a month earlier, I’d asked the people working in the Lee Jeans Denim Den, a sponsor booth made to look like an actual Lee store, if they made pants for toddlers. I honestly had no idea because just about all of Sienna’s clothes are hand-me-downs. They told me yes and I didn’t think anything more of it. The next thing I knew I received an e-mail from Lee asking about sizes for not just Sienna, but Elaine as well! Stunned, I responded with the information and asked why they wanted to know.

“It’s your daughter’s 3rd birthday! We want to do something nice for her!” read the e-mail, totally blowing my mind. And so a package came a few days prior to Sienna’s birthday with 2 pairs of jeans each for Sienna and Elaine. While Elaine’s fit just fine, Sienna is such a string bean that I had to pull out the adjustable straps at least 10 times on each side. Still, she looked great! I e-mailed Lee back and thanked them wholeheartedly, mentioning the straps, but saying it was perfectly fine. Once more I thought nothing more of it.

Elaine and Sienna playing with Picasso Tiles and wearing their new Lee Jeans

Out came the cake – chocolate as requested – adorned with 3 flickering candles. Sienna stood on a chair not quite knowing what to do with herself, but clearly happy and maybe a little shy and embarrassed as we sang “Happy Birthday” to her. She’d experienced this ritual before (both Elaine and my birthdays were in February). She’d experienced in class, though it probably meant less to her because the few classmates there and her teachers remain mostly strangers. This was her mommy, daddy, grandma and pop-pop singing to her. So she stood there as we sang sometimes looking down at the floor, but mostly staring at us with her eyes as bright and dancing as the candles’ flames and then she blew out the candles, had a small slice of cake and raced back to the Picasso Tiles. All in all, a very successful birthday, but she still had the small party with the relatives to go.

Sienna standing and smiling in front of her cake as we sang “Happy Birthday”

Saturday was a relaxing day. Nothing doing. Sunday arrived and we were all set to travel to New Jersey for Sienna’s party when she started complaining of stomach pains and developed a slight fever. Curveball. Should we cancel at the last minute after all of the preparation my aunt and uncle had done, after my cousins had set aside their busy schedules and roped their children together? The answer came in the form of a spray of vomit. Swing and a miss. Terror seized Sienna as she’d only vomited once before in her life (3 days later she’s well but fears eating anything lest she throw up). Her fever spiked to close to 101. Elaine and Sienna stayed home. I went to my parents to New Jersey, to the balloons and cardboard party glasses and presents and Hello Kitty ice cream cake awaiting the birthday girl. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but when you’re 3, you don’t remember such things and as adults, we were disappointed (my grandmother especially since she’s 95 and yearns to see her great-grandchildren whenever possible), but we barbecued and talked childhood illnesses and sang “Happy Birthday no Sienna!” (as suggested by one of kids) as Elaine texted me with positive updates.

Sienna missed out on her Hello Kitty ice cream cake, but that’s ok. She’ll have plenty of more chances and she’ll never recall birthday number 3

Thus my little girl’s birthday weekend ended on a slightly sour note (very sour if you’re talking what that vomit must have tasted like), but on Monday she noticed 3 more balloons to add the the 3 she already possessed as well as 4 more presents to open and her tummy felt slightly better for a short while. But the biggest surprise (at least for me) came when I opened the door that afternoon and found a large box. Inside was a wrapped gift that Sienna, with her usual intensity, tore open revealing a very sweet card marking the passage into age 3 from Lee Jeans as well as another pair of pants and a really cool Kinetic Sand kit that Sienna’s had a ball playing with! Curveball. Swing and a high fly…and it’s outta here! Who would have thought that a short conversation with a sponsor at Dad 2.0 would have led to this icing on Sienna’s birthday cake?

The surprise card, THIRD pair of jeans for Sienna (Elaine received 2 and I, of course, got 1 at Dad 2.0) and Kinetic Sand kit from Lee Jeans

There might have been tummy aches and vomiting and a missed party with the relatives, but the celebration with our core family, the joy in watching my daughter learn, at least partially, the concept of birthdays, and the utter random kindness from a Dad 2.0 sponsor made birthday number 3 one for the ages.