One of the more potentially interesting – greatly interesting to some of us – sidelights to the upcoming Minnesota gubernatorial election is Democratic candidate and former U.S. Sen. Mark Dayton’s admission that he’s depressive.

Possibly because it’s relatively early in the process, Dayton’s admission hasn’t been the focus of a whole lot of discussion.  I’m sure, though, that if he actually comes within shouting distance of being the Democratic candidate for governor, it’ll be part of the campaign.  Somebody actually will have the temerity to ask, “Do you really want a nut representing you in the governor’s office?”

Of course, they won’t phrase it quite so blatantly, but that’ll be the implication of any question asked.

As a depressive of many years myself, I’ll be watching it closely.

Yeah, you read that right.  I’m one.

That may come as a surprise to many people that know me, because I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky kinda guy.  I’m not somebody who mopes around always looking like somebody just shot his dog.  That’s part of the reason I’m outing myself here.

I don’t want to bleed all over the carpet, but I’ll say this much:  Mine is a fairly mild case, controlled for years by a daily dose of medication (most of the time Paxil, which has some side effects that actually have been beneficial).  I’ve never been suicidal.  I’ve never been unable to get out of bed in the morning, at least not due to depression.  Aside from the time it takes to swallow a daily pill, the only thing it’s made me do is have a yearly conversation with a doctor that consists of:  “How are things going?”  “Fine.”  “Okay, I’ll renew the prescription for another year.”

But I’ve felt, and occasionally still feel, the effects. There have been times when, usually aggravated by some event in my life, the depression has come on strong.  It’s been an almost palpable feeling, like a huge hand pressing down on the top of my head.  It isn’t just a vague, bummed-out sensation.  At such times, I have well understood why a severe case may make somebody literally unable to get out of bed.

But for me, those instances have thankfully been rare.  My depression often shows up as a kind of vague malaise.  Or, more commonly, general pissiness.  In fact, that’s why I got diagnosed.  My wife noticed I was yelling at the kids a lot.

In the years since, I’ve come to realize my family is shot through with depression, some diagnosed and some not.  I would bet every nickel I’ve ever had that my Dad, just to cite one example, was depressive.  He had a rather short fuse, especially after the company he worked for screwed him over and he retired.  But he was never diagnosed or treated, which is too bad.  Unfortunately, he was of the generation to whom “depression” and “crazy” were synonymous.

And this isn’t a case of projection.  I’m not like one of those recovering alcoholics who suddenly figures everybody is a drunk.  I can see it in others when I see behavior that mimics my own.  That’s why I’m sure Dad was depressive; he gave me many good things, but a tendency toward irritability wasn’t one of the ones I’d want to keep.

And we depressives realize that we can’t be a lot of fun to live with.  There are few experiences in life less pleasant than taking a ride on somebody else’s mood swing (it isn’t just bipolar people who have those). You non-depressives don’t even have the comfort of self-pity in those situations.

I realize I’m speaking from the perspective of somebody whose problem is relatively mild.  Comparing my depression to a truly severe case is like comparing a paper cut to an amputation.   But still, I’ve felt its effects and can extrapolate what it’s like to really have it bad.

I don’t know how severe Dayton’s depression is/was.  It obviously wasn’t the can’t-get-out-of-bed type, since he did manage to serve in the Senate.  But it was bad enough to be treated for, and that’s bad enough.

It shouldn’t disqualify him from running for governor.  It’s certainly true that you wouldn’t want someone with a tendency toward depression’s hopelessness to be, say, president, where you can destroy the world with the push of a button.  Nuclear war might seem to some people a good way to avoid dealing with the day, but there’s just too much collateral damage.

On the other hand, had depression disqualified a person from public service, we would’ve lost some great leaders.  Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill both were depressive and at a time when there were fewer (or no) medical treatments.  And given that one was dealing with civil war and the other with having his country pounded to rubble by German bombs, a little darkness in the mind and soul would have fallen over even a non-depressive.  (On the other hand, neither had access to nukes; for all we know, if they had, Richmond still would be radioactive.)

My fondest hope is that depression someday will be treated simply as what it is:  a chronic illness that, in most cases, can be managed. It would be great if eventually, people would generally have the same reaction I think a lot of people will to me outing myself:  “Really?”

That probably won’t happen in my lifetime.  In fact, there may be a person or two who will now cross the street when they see me coming (for other than the usual reasons).  Such is the plight of the mentally ill:  Everybody just sees too many examples of severe cases to realize that most people with a mental illness are functional.  It’s like being diabetic.

And it would be really nice if it didn’t come up in political campaigns, but I’m not holding my breath.