When I Was Floored by Depression, I Was Told to Turn to a Trendy Practice. It’s the Worst.

The Bible mentions gratitude 157 times. The New Testament says “Give thanks in all circumstances.” In modern times, Oprah Winfrey calls the gratitude journal life-changing. You’ve heard it. Scientists say gratitude helps the brain.

In the beginning, in the mid-’90s, while playing softball and working to save the world, I was a believer. Every day, I wrote down three things I was grateful for: 1) I live in New York City. 2) I have 24-hour access to pizza. 3) I’m in love.

At 24, I thought love meant forever. Then my girlfriend slept with another woman. She said she didn’t know what that meant for us. But I knew.

I was a mess. Of course, I pulled out my gratitude journal and listed my remaining good fortune: “New York,” “pizza.” Still, I cried all night.

I know this is sacrilegious, but I’m here to tell you: If you’re miserable, stop listing what you’re grateful for. It’s causing you pain. Instead, focus on the negative.

I learned this 30 years ago, while I was going through that breakup. One night, I hung out with a friend who had another friend who asked me how I was doing, and instead of saying some platitude, or, “Fine, how are you?” I said, “I’m wrecked. I’m going through a breakup.”

“Study yourself,” he said. “Become an expert in heartbreak.”

I thought it was a strange suggestion. But what else did I have to try? I started studying right in that moment, in a crowded East Village restaurant with my friend and her friend and a slice of pizza. First thing I noticed: I was so sad I couldn’t even take the first bite.

As I walked home alone down Seventh Street, there was no color on the street. I felt so tired because I couldn’t fall asleep, but once I did fall asleep, I couldn’t wake up. I couldn’t finish a newspaper article or even a TV show. I didn’t want to shower.

I thought: This is what heartbreak looks like.

After just a week, a shift happened. While studying heartbreak, a tiny bit of distance crept in between me and what I was going through. Now, when I went to work on the crowded subway and cried into my own shoulder, something else was also happening. I was making discoveries, like how it was possible to feel alone among so many people—sad but also interesting.

The pain didn’t go away immediately, but studying my sadness made everything more bearable.

Ten years later, at 34, I was a single lesbian and got pregnant on my own with sperm from a sperm bank. The minute sperm met egg, I hated everyone, especially myself, and was diagnosed with hormone-induced depression.

I had a neighbor who had just gotten married, and who knows, maybe she was trying to get pregnant. I told her I was growing out of my underwear and she offered to get me new ones. I knew it was the nicest offer, but I hated her for it.

“No, I don’t want you buying me underwear,” I said.

I must have been complaining a lot because she said, “What is your problem? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“You have no idea what I had to do to make this happen,” I said. “I had to buy sperm, monitor ovulation, time ovulation just right, go to the sperm bank to pick up my sperm, which came in a 3-foot-high box with the words ‘This Way Up’ on it, then drive my sperm and me to the fertility clinic, just as my egg was leaving my ovary. Yes, a baby is everything I wanted.”

“You should be grateful,” she said.

Believe me, I had tried to be grateful, because then, as now, there was huge social pressure to count your blessings. Oprah was at her height. Gratitude journals were all the rage.

I wrote three things in my journal, except I could only think of two. 1) I’m a pregnancy success. 2) I have a friend who will buy me granny panties.

But remembering all I had to be grateful for didn’t change that I was physiologically floored by depression. And singing my good fortune just compounded my misery with guilt.

That’s when I remembered that friend of a friend. I knew what I had to do. I had to study depression.

So I opened my notebook and wrote down what I wasn’t grateful for. 1) I don’t have a partner to get me new underwear. 2) I don’t have a partner to share the biggest moment of my life. 3) I’m lonely.

There. I had something legitimate to be ungrateful for. And you know what? Seeing the truth written down helped me feel better.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a total Scrooge. Most years, I love getting my turn at the Thanksgiving table. But sometimes there’s nothing quite like anti-gratitude. It’s not as joyous as counting your blessings. But in times of sadness, it can really help.