One of the things I frequently think about is whether or not I should have children. The reason why I think this is because my gene pool is obviously pretty corrupted. They’ve recently found data to support that five debilitating mental disorders — bipolar, schizophrenia, autism, severe depression and ADHD — are all expressions of the same, or similar, genes.
It would take one dinner at my parent’s house to see that my siblings and I are all variation of this single genetic flaw. We should do like an instructive tv show for children, and be like, “and this is what severe depression is like,” and I would come out wearing a gray smock, moaning at an increasingly loud volume because I can’t figure out what to wear to a party. And then another one of my siblings would come on screen wearing a red smock, and they’d be like, “and this is what ADHD is like,” and that sibling would start running around like a maniac, kicking people in the nuts for no reason.
I thought that maybe Caleb might not carry the gene, thus making our potential offspring 50% safe from corruption. But then, last night, when I was explaining how I didn’t think I’d write good fiction because I never had imaginary friends, he told me about the Martians who used to come play with him when he was little. “They weren’t imaginary friends though,” he assured me.
“Sounds like imaginary friends to me,” I said.
“No, they used to come knock on my door, but I never told anyone else about them,” he said.
“Um,” I told him. “Even worse.”
“Oh shit,” he said. “I had imaginary friends when I was younger.”
“What do you think we should name our first daughter?” I asked him. Because a basic symptom of the flawed gene is irrational, destructive thinking.
If you’d like to listen to a really fascinating tale of a bipolar prostitute who used to pimp for Giorgio Armani, and stored $850,000 in cash in his freezer, listen to this podcast by Dr. Drew, which is surprisingly engaging.
