Yeah, I haven’t been around. And yeah, it’s because I’ve been depressed. A combination of the previously discussed crisis of confidence at work, unseasonably hot weather, my supply of antidepressants running low, and some other crap all contributed to the onset of what had all the early signs of a severe depression: loss of interest in things that I usually enjoy (all four of them*), complete lack of energy, inability to concentrate, desire to sleep all the time, etc. Fortunately, it seems to be just maybe starting to subside—and I stress “seems” because a) I don’t want to push my luck and b) the symptoms haven’t fully receded yet, the creeping tendrils are still grabbing at my brain. Plus the temperatures, after dipping below average for the last few weeks, have started to climb again. But I’ve been less totally inert lately, at least, and that’s just maybe a promising sign.

I’ve always resisted describing myself as a “victim” of depression, because I’ve been conditioned by various cancer patients I’ve known to avoid that sort of language, but I have fewer qualms about saying that I suffer from depression. Because, well, I do; it is suffering, when I’m in that state, suffering of a kind I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s always easy, when I’ve had a long stretch of feeling pretty good, as I have recently, for me to forget that depression is a disease, and one that can’t always be cured. For people with major, chronic depression, like me, these cycles just have to be accepted and gotten through, basically. That’s wearying, and I wish it weren’t the case, but it always has been for me, medication or not, therapy or not, positive or negative situational factors or not. And though I’ve broken the streak a few times in recent years, the fact is that I nearly always get depressed in April; in my world, it really is the cruelest month, which is fitting for an Eliot fan like me. (I have a New Yorker cartoon on my fridge, one that will always be on any fridge where I happen to live, that’s captioned “T.S. Eliot Meets Beavis and Butthead” and features a guy sitting at a table looking depressed and saying/thinking, “April sucks.” I Love That.) All of my worst depressions (and I mean the real ones, not things like grieving) have occurred or started in April, including my very first brush with the disease. Sometimes they linger into May and June; with luck, this won’t turn out to be one of those.

Anyway. One of the things that’s been keeping me relatively chipper lately is the NBA playoffs, which have been way more exciting than I can remember the early rounds being in several seasons. With the sad exception of the Grizzlies getting blown out (sad because it means no more Bobby Jackson to root for this season), the first round was more dramatic than I would have expected it to be, and how cool was it that the Wizards—who were laughingstocks not all that long ago, though it’s easy to forget that now that they’ve got Butler and especially the marvelous Gilbert Arenas—played Cleveland so tough? How beautiful was it to see the Bulls get to blow the Heat out by 19 points in one game and kept them close in most of the others? Not that I hate the Heat, really—like most other people on the planet, I’m sick of Shaq, though mostly I’m indifferent to him, but how could anyone hate a team that includes Dwyane Wade, who you could pretty convincingly argue is the best all-around player in the game today? (I wouldn’t make that argument myself, but it can be plausibly made). It’s just that the Bulls are my favorite team to watch in the Eastern Conference these days, and they’re only going to get better, at least for the immediate future.

(It’s weird to root for the Bulls, in a way, because for years, from my perspective, rooting for the Bulls was like rooting for air or sunlight or something; they were there, they were going to win, and rooting for them didn’t really seem to have much purpose unless you were a Chicagoan. And I got sick of MJ, not quite in the same way that I’m now sick of Shaq: no, I’m not for a second denying his brilliance on the court, and I can’t seriously argue that he wasn’t the best ever, but players who so totally dominate a game just become boring after a while. It’s a fact of life. So I always rooted against the Bulls, unless they were playing a team I hated (usually the Jazz). But that was a whole nother era ago, and today’s Bulls are just too exciting not to love.)

If the first round was more exciting than any in recent memory, the second round is starting to look like it will go down as the best second round in the modern playoff era. Nail-biting finishes! The Cavs making Detroit look not just mortal, but even occasionally feeble! Duncan and Ginobili playing incredibly well given that they’ve been hurt, and the Spurs still in danger of losing in six! (I’d say “at likely risk of losing in 6,” but I don’t want to jinx the Mavs.) And most amazing of all, the unbelievable spectacle of the Clippers—the Los Angeles Clippers—looking like a team that could maybe even win it all, especially if by some miracle Cleveland actually does send the Pistons home.

Though the Clippers better not win it all, because that would mean the Suns losing, and I’m not ready for that. (It would be bad for my mental health, which is, as noted, currently rather frail. I hope Sam Cassell will keep that in mind when he suddenly starts hitting late-fourth-quarter threes tonight.) Since I don’t even want to utter the name of that team from my hometown that I’ve rooted for my whole life, and my other team, the Wolves, were barely more worthy of mention this season (bring me the head of Kevin McHale, please—seriously, how much longer can he ride his status as Beloved Minnesota Icon before Glenn Taylor notices that his GM hasn’t made a good move since KG was drafted), the Suns were my team this year more than any other, even without Amaré Stoudemire, one of my favorite players in the league. I tend to like guard-led play and smaller teams, so the Suns play my preferred style, and it’s also been so cool to see these unexpected stars emerge: Boris Diaw most notably, but also Leandro Barbosa, and Raja Bell (who’s no rookie, but who had dropped off the map for a while there), and geez, even Tim Thomas has been playing like a near-star. Shawn Marion has had a stellar year even by his already stellar standards, and then of course there’s Steve Nash. I’ve recently decided that I have a deep and abiding love for/crush on Steve Nash, embarrassing Jackie Earle Haley hair and all. He’s smart, he’s gentlemanly, he seems eminently normal, he’s Canadian…and he usually has just a hint of a mischievous twinkle in his eyes during interviews, which makes me think that he’s a guy who’s having a pretty great time being him.

Which brings me to two minor and basically irrelevant points that I’m going to mention anyway:

1. I would like to nominate the Suns as having the highest percentage of really handsome players of any NBA team in recent memory, and possibly ever. I mean, have you looked at those guys? Raja Bell could model. Boris Diaw…let’s just say it makes sense that his surname rhymes with “Wow!” And Shawn Marion, needless to say, is a serious looker. Same for Leandro Barbosa. I’ve always thought Stoudemire was a very handsome young man too. I don’t mean to be all People magazine here, but it’s really hard not to notice what an attractive team this is.

2. Is it just me, or is the league more crowded with classy, likeable, poised young players now than it’s ever been? I’m not suggesting that it’s been filled with thugs in the past; I tend to believe that most of the supposed badasses, including Iverson and Ron Artest and Kenyon Martin, etc., are pretty good guys too. (Artest has indisputably done some dumbass shit, on and off the court, but I think he’s both gentler and more complex than people think, and Iverson has certainly shown over the years that just because he doesn’t scrub up pretty, it doesn’t mean that he’s any kind of gangsta; as he’s said recently, he’s a dad guy in his 30s these days, he’s not hanging on the corner. I always hated the bad rap that Iverson got, even before his Georgetown days. But that’s a story for another day.) But the emerging stars now just seem so…so nice, and so adult, and (mostly) so well-spoken and thoughtful. LeBron? Class all the way. Same for DWade. I’ve seen interviews in recent days with Cuttino Mobley and Richard Jefferson and a couple of others and just been struck by how likeable they all are. Which makes it even more of a pleasure to be an NBA fan right now.

*I always chuckle at those PSAs and questionnaires that pop up during National Depression Awareness Week or whatever that list the symptoms of a possible depression, which always include something like “Do you find it hard to take pleasure in activities you used to enjoy?” because as a nearly lifelong depressive, my response is usually “No, because there are no activities that I used to enjoy.” But that’s a slight exaggeration, especially lately, and this time around, when I noticed that I couldn’t even work up the energy to knit or read, I knew I was genuinely depressed.