How to be a good person

On learned helplessness, virtue signaling and narcissistic art monsters

I’m writing from beautiful, bizarre Ditmas Park, the Victorian and Colonial Revival-heavy suburbs of south Brooklyn, taking care of the world’s sweetest droopy-faced rescue puppy named Willa. I’m obsessed with her. She needs a lot of walks, so it’s lucky that this week it’s been bright and lovely and, as of the past couple days, warm verging on HOT in New York.

Before offering to watch a few different dogs around Brooklyn this month in exchange for free places to stay, I probably should have thought back to the year I lived alone, when, during a depressive episode, caring for my dog Gus—walking him, feeding him, playing with him, making sure he got enough enrichment and exercise and love—was sometimes the only thing I was really capable of on any given day. If I’m running low on energy (or, you know, the will to live) I’d much sooner neglect my own needs than those of a sweet, helpless animal who’s entirely dependent on my care.

When I’m experiencing a bout of depression, which tends to correlate with a prolonged period of severe executive dysfunction (a real chicken or egg situation), I’m better at tending to some of my physiological needs than others. Meanwhile, most of the ones beyond the base of Maslow’s hierarchy tend to go out the window. My very real need to earn a living, for example.