Why Squidward Was the Wake-up Call I Needed Most When I Was Depressed

By Clarkisha Kent


As soon as SpongeBob SquarePants creator Stephen Hillenburg passed away last Tuesday, I noticed myself thinking a lot about the impact of his show on pop culture and the hard and funny lessons it taught me, particularly about my depression. How I came to comprehend it in the initial place was through Hillenburg’s creation of Squidward Q. Tentacles.


For better or for worse although mostly for better), I’ve related closely to Sir Tentacles in recent years because of how he’s helped me understand depression overall, how it operates in my life, why as well as how to deal with it. I could probably trace its origins back a little bit further — abusive families will do that — although I wasn’t officially diagnosed with depression and PTSD up until soon after I suffered a debilitating ACL injury between my sophomore and junior year of college. In the aftermath, I some days wouldn’t eat or bathe for days. I occasionally ate also much. I went from sleeping normally to either sleeping all day or being up all night. I became even more jumpy and anxious than my upbringing had taught me to be. I lost interest in a lot of the things I loved — including writing. And I noticed that I fully avoided the soccer field where the injury had taken place.


From that point, there were several things I did to cope. Binge-watching SpongeBob Squarepants was one of these, generally with pizza rolls and booze. (For some people, emotional consuming food and drinking aren’t also far in back of depression.) I did try to give myself a fair and healthy shake at dealing head-on with my struggles through therapy — which worked for the three seconds I might could realistically afford to pay for therapy.


Though I had spent my early childhood roasting Squidward for his “nasty” attitude, I saw myself very clearly — and rather uncomfortably — in him this time around. For myself and other Black millennials I knew, who were far more likely to dismiss the significance of mental health, it was maybe the wake-up call we required.


Squidward exhibited several of the indications and hallmarks of major clinical depression. At the Krusty Krab, he was routinely tired and routinely regretted getting out of bed and going to work. He was apathetic about his own existence, and the existence of others. Whenever pushed to his emotional limits by SpongeBob, he often experienced bursts of anger — either from irritability or agitation. He was disinterested in performing happiness and joy publicly in ways that made those around him more comfortable — particularly in the workplace — however recognized that his “nasty” attitude had to be held somewhat because… capitalism. And he was exceedingly discontent with and resentful about the mundane turn his life had taken: getting up to go to work, being miserable at work, coming house, sleeping, and maybe finding a sliver of joy in between from playing his clarinet.


In "Band Geeks," one of the series' most beloved episodes, Squidward's despair comes to a head. His high school nemesis Squilliam Fancyson pops up to deride his lack of of professional and personalized success, goading him into accepting a distribute to the Bubble Bowl halftime show with his nonexistent band.


While it remains one of the few moments in the series where Squidward “wins” (as SpongeBob rallies the denizens of Bathing suit Bottom with each other for the efficiency, the envy, regret, and aggravation he experiences throughout this episode is 100 percent relatable. I mean, technically, Squidward is doing decently enough. He’s employed and maintains a roof over his head. Yet he’s also stuck in what several of us would imagine a dead-end job, is likely paid minimum wage by Mr. Krabs, who is exceedingly inexpensive (just like a Baby Boomer!), And at this point, has come nowhere close to realizing any of his dreams (the very same that he’s shown to have buried in “One Krab’s Trash”). Once Squilliam comes to town and flaunts his own success, Squidward is forced to confront everything he’s given up on.


Let me tell you: As a millennial of color who lives in constant existential dread just at the idea of having to maybe show up at my high school reunion, I feel this. A lot. Dread about being that nobody at the reunion. Dread about financial insecurity. Dread about uncertain futures. Dread about barely making enough (or even minimum wage) to completely mask the necessities like housing and healthcare that should be guaranteed. That’s not even getting into the hefty school cash advance debt that our generation collectively faces, the ugly gap in how this dread is spread when we break down race or gender, and thus several other things.


Overeducated. Underpaid. Underappreciated. Undermined.


It’s all dreadful, truly. So why wouldn’t millennials like myself relate to Squidward?


However even so, it’s not all gloom and doom with him. Like several folx who may be living with depression or some other mental health distribute (and are perhaps undiagnosed), he can still display the complete span of his humanity (and the human experience). In fact, though he despises work, and by extension SpongeBob, as soon as the latter is mistreated at the hands of a customer in “Pizza Delivery,” Squidward is incensed, empathizes, and fiercely steps in to defend him. In “Band Geeks,” if he proves Squilliam wrong, we visualize him experiencing pure and unadulterated joy. And whenever he can be read as battling a mental health distribute, he deals with it mostly through his dry, caustic, and bitingly sarcastic wit. The scope of his character ensured that I may identify with him, that myself and other folx who survive with mental health issues could visualize that we are typical, everyday people who aren't just "sad" all of the time. That our existences are nuanced, as are our struggles, and why we cope with them.


Such nuance includes the observation that, as one individual tweeted, some Black families have at least one family that we just don’t talk about because most of the family member has written them off as “crazy.” Such nuance comes with the understanding that while younger generations of Black people understand the impact that poor mental health can have, we’re mostly ill-equipped and ill-prepared to discuss or completely combat it. Alternatively, we’ve been told that The reply is merely to pray it away, that these are “White People diseases” that we’re dealing with, or that the suffering reflects poorly on us and our families. To alleviate the most biting indications of our mental health issues, we're turning to less-than-ideal coping mechanisms, self-medication in various forms and, for myself, self-deprecating humor. Especially as soon as we cannot afford therapy or are too ashamed to engage in it, even as soon as we know we need it.


None of this is cut and dry, because people aren’t cut and dry. If this nuance doesn’t sum up the plight of millennials of color and our other unhealthy coping mechanisms, I don’t know what does. And possibly Hillenburg was writing with us in mind all along.


Whichever the case, Squidward, at the hands of Hillenburg, joins a long line of fictional characters in our cultural lexicon who can be interpreted as living with mental health issues, however yet still live the fullest ranges of their truths on our TV screens. Characters like Eeyore. Or Oscar the Grouch. Sailor Saturn. Dr. Cox. Bojack Horseman. They’re all eye catching and often painful reminders that we aren’t alone.


Squidward is a testament to Hillenburg’s commitment to straightforward, humorous, and touching storytelling. And our culture is so much poorer with his passing.


If you or someone you know are struggling with emotional health issues, help is obtainable. Head to halfofus.Com for more resources.