The Flags of our fathers: An introduction.

The flags or our fathers are a tedious thing. A great burden we have to carry. A heritage and an inheritance we never ask for but must bear most of the days of our lives.

I have always wanted to write these pieces, actually make it a series of pieces, talking about what our fathers here in Uganda have left us and how many of us are forced to contend with these long after we have left our parents’ home and grown into young men and women.

I wanted to write but I did not want to sound like a defeated youth blaming the acts of yesteryear for their misfortune especially in an atmosphere that seems to whisper, “if you have failed it is your fault.”

I did not want to cuddle up to the other masses of on line attention seekers who illicit sympathy and readership because of their dark brooding lives and tales of woe and misfortune…I did not want to be a cynic either regaling you with how the world is quirky and sort of does not work by poking fun at other, myself or you the reader.

I want this to be one man’s honest journey into his past and his present, investigating the things that make him who he is and how they shape his future.

It will be a tale of some joys but mostly sadness for I cannot write about the laughter I did not have or the smiles I could give but the tears cried and uncried that defined many aspects of my life.

I want it to be a roadmap for my future. A statement that from henceforth I shall not be the man that my father was but I shall surpass him or I shall die trying. I shall carry my name proudly but I shall not carry the shame or the heritage.

This is a chance for me to lie on the couch and let loose into the cosmos the burden of my heart and hurt and let the flags of my father unfurl in the breeze allowing a chance for new life and new hope, that this symbols that has been such a burden shall start to breath a new an air fresher than that of the savannah after a heavy African rain. That the wind shall carry away with it my fears and hurts and pains, but like the moisture heavy ocean winds bring with it a torrent of newness and life.

The flags of our fathers

Are a burdensome thing

For our desperate hope and

Identity to it we must cling

Dearly like the fragile sapling

borne to the crevice whilst

just a seed , it’s the sum of our

Of our existence.

And now into the fray: Religious Freedoms?

(this is a loooong one)

I have finished reading an article online in which a University Professor asked his students to “stomp on Jesus” or more accurately write the name Jesus on a piece of paper and place it on the floor and then stomp on it as part of a lesson on intercultural Communications. This particular exercise was from a teachers handbook that accompanied the text book “ Inter-cultural Communications: A Contextual Approach, 5^th edition”

Even as i read this i am reminded of the uproar that surrounded particular incidences where the Prophet Muhammad was made fun of either in speech or at that time caricature. At that time i really thought that perhaps Muslims needed to loosen up and not be too uptight. In fact i was really annoyed that people seemed to walk on eggshells when it came to Islamic issues. I was like, “ how come Christianity or other faiths don’t inspire such uproar from their follower” and i also wondered as to why, when it did, most people just brushed off the other faiths with the response, “get with the programme” and many times these other faiths were beaten into submission with big words like bigoted, narrow-minded, backward etc. etc. Basically they were about as in touch with modern society as dinosaurs and so had no right to speak or at least that is what it seemed.

I came to the conclusion that such “respect” from the secular world depended on how you used machetes in relation to human heads and your prowess with stones and said human heads. I further hypothesised that perhaps it was high time Christian demanded respect for their Faith minus the ‘pangas’ and the like.

But Muslims have been over taken as the number one indignant lyrical waxing inducing topic by homosexuality. I bet the best situation for anyone seeking asylum in a “western” forward looking society would be for one to not only me homosexual, but also Muslim, persecuted by Bible waving Christians and Governments in the a certain third world country. But this is just a stereo type. Oh and i digress.

So reading the above mentioned article plus the many debates i have followed on Facebook between apologist of Christian faith and apologists of the atheist “faith” i have noticed that perhaps the “open minded” people are not as open minded as they claim to be.

The article clearly states how being “different” from the main stream, in this case Christianity vs. liberal whateverism (i term coined to represent the apparent lack of any sort of belief system among today’s youth), means you get to be “mistreated” legally. Some of the words used by “secularists” vs. “faithists” really leave me dismayed and i wonder if they actually are as liberal or open minded as they claim. Words like bigoted, ignorant, small minded or narrow minded are bandied around freely. Sometimes threads descend into needless provocation and veiled insult. Mark you, both sides are not innocent, but perhaps more is expected of the liberal forward looking open minded folk than sheer gutter talk and underhandedness.

Why did this professor have to pick on Jesus of all religious figures? According to a friend who i once asked a similar question, it’s because Christians are the ones who proselytize the most.

I was confused because i thought their aversion was to all faiths that rejected the forward march of science and the crystalline “truths” it embodied. It seems there is some bias coming from both sides of the isle…oops sorry...road.

I am a Christian and my faith informs a lot of the decisions i make and it’s from that stand point i write this article. I may not know all there is to know and i don’t claim to do so. Something don’t make sense still others make total sense but i also know that salvation is both and event and a journey and to borrow the word s of Paul the apostle, we know in part but then we shall know in full.

And this is my take on some of the controversy:

I believe that Atheist need to show some respect even for those things that they do not agree with. There is no difference between what you do and what the roman church did back then. You both operate from a pedestal of superiority, one stemming from the fact that they felt they were called of God and another from their intellectualism.

Both of you have persecuted in one way or another those that do not see as you see. The church did it with inquisition and burning but the scathing attacks launched from blogs, post, comments and dialogues is just the same but without the physical flames.

Perhaps it would be prudent for the secularists to realise all that they do is simply because they hold the popular opinion just as most of the people then were behind the church’s actions.

Of course secularism claims to be more educated and enlightened and progressive now but don’t forget the same could be said of the church at that time. Who knows, should this world tarry for some more trillion years, our knowledge would look just as archaic to people in the future as stone tools seem to us today.

Isn’t the amount of abuse heaped on those that have tradition Christian views towards certain subjects not be compared to the abuse that those with alternative lifestyles have suffered? Granted fewer traditional Christians are beaten or maimed or killed by radical secularist however the ostracism they face is probably as damaging.

If you are truly open minded and liberal dear secularist, perhaps the old adage would work perfectly, live and let live.

A word to the Christian

Much of what i have said above applies even to us.

Treat all divergent views with respect and learn that you can disagree without being at war. Do not resort to abuse or maligning of any sort in the name of defending the faith. Remember, the faith we now practice has been here for year and has faced even greater more focused opposition. God is capable of defending himself. That’s why we believe he is supreme.

I sharing your faith, remember that God did not ask you to seek converts but to speak Truth. Stand for it whenever possible and speak up when needed. Do not argue, or use fear tactics or such other tools of “public speaking” Instead share, simply what you know, what you believe and why.

Our avenue is love, first for one another then for the non-believer. The book of acts, so aptly named, demonstrated the faith and love the believers showed for each other and it testifies that this is what drew the people of that time. I think it’s a method we could try.

Know that God has not forbid you from questioning him both about what you understand and don’t understand. Questions do not scare God. However you cannot fling away the scriptures based on what someone said or what you read or heard because the answers you seek are in the word. You cannot find the truth about Christianity apart from Christianity. I Hope that made sense. You cannot ask a baker the secrets of plumbing.

Perhaps also it would be a good thing for you to read intensively and extensively and prayerfully ponder these things through the word of God. I shall illustrate.

Seven days is how much time scripture says God took to create the world. I believe our idea or concept of time may differ from God. So perhaps, evolution or aspects of it are also Gods method. It would also be good to note that while we may have evolved from monkeys, we don’t seem to be evolving into anything else.  That may not be the best example but i hope you get the gist of what i mean.

There are those among us who lean towards more liberal inclinations. I have seen many use their status updates to belittle and poke fun at their own faith for various reason. I think that this is bad form indeed. To those i say, be careful because you associations may be mistaken as your endorsements and while you are passionate about ridding the faith of “ignorant radicals” you still have a responsibility to speak and stand for the truth. Besides, you are also held to the same level of scrutiny as the other xtians are, so if in your crusade for reform you do something the faith considers wrong, you will be held accountable for it.

50 Shades of Grey.

For those of you who may not be in the know that is the title of a very popular novel that no self-respecting trend follower cannot be seen totting around or at least say they have read it. Normally such people will then delve into how the book speaks to something more and will try to explain some existential mental orgasm the experienced at the hands of the masterpiece.

I have not read this book. I doubt I shall read it. In case you are like me u suggest reading the wiki-pedia page on this book and you shall quickly realise, unless of course approval by these yuppies is what you crave, that you should spend your time on more worthwhile things like reading an African classic or picking your nose.

For me the book is just another example of how women’s lib really has to work more and a dive into one man’s sadomasochistic fantasies. But hey that’s just my opinion. But seriously reading a book on migration in Uganda would leave you better educated unless of course you are into Sado-masochism of which then this book is just what you need.

That said this post is way too late. It was meant to be a piece on 50 things I love about my country and a dedication to my mother nation on its 50^th celebration of Independence from British Colonial rule but I just never found the time and as such, this is late. But no matter, i shall plod on.

Furthermore I doubt I shall be listing 50 things on spot either so feel free to comment and suggest some of the things you like about your country. Please avoid the bizarre, inane, asinine and lewd.

Solidarity: I was once on this bus coming into town and as i got of some other lady darted outside and immediately started throwing up. From what i gathered she had been unwell and the passengers harped upon the bus driver till he stopped and let her out. But that was not the amazing thing; they made the bus driver wait for the lady until she had finished with some even offering to pay for the delay if the impatient driver could not show some humanity. They all threatened to get off the bus and not pay if he dared leave her behind. Needless to say he waited; the lady finished retching and got back into the bus. I on the other hand was left with a warm feeling in my pumper.

I love Ugandan(s) party mind-set. While i may not condone excessive partying, i condone even less people who take life too seriously. While we may not hold a candle other festivals around the globe I can tell you, you have not partied until you have shaken it to the rhythm of the pearl. 'Nuff' said.

Boda-boda:  No one word can describe these chaps. From what I have heard the term originated about the border areas of the nation where bicycles where used to ferry people across the border to locations from which they could then hop a ride into whichever town they fancied. They were not legal in the strictest terms but were “normal” and where popularly referred to border to border hence the basterdised term 'Boda-boda'.

There are several reasons i love these little two wheeled demon driven machines. Ok yes most 'boda-boda' riders seem to have their brains at the base of their skull and yes they do get into nasty scrapes on the road and yes they have now forced the National Referral Hospital to create one whole ward for 'boda' related accidents but boy do they come in handy. They are the closest thing to an adrenaline rush that does not involve jumping of or over something or going down rapids meant to kill crocodiles and it is way cheaper too.

However that is secondary to the stories that they tell. Boy do they live interesting lives. If you have taken one of these rides especially late at night you will be amazed. Just know they are so good they convince me to use my atrocious Luganda skills just so I can follow the story.

We may not like them very much but we cannot live without them and they may be one of the closest things we have to a modern national symbol, crested crane notwithstanding.

To be continued (maybe)

If Super Man Could Cry.

According to the internet, the only place where I can take personality tests for free, I am a choleric sanguine. This sunny side up personality has a lot of good points and several equally outstanding bad one. One of these is that I don’t cry that easy.

I thought this was all humbug but, sigh, sadly it’s true. Crying is not my strong suit and crying really unnerves me. I also have the fortune of being a man so crying unnerves me twice as much.

But this does not mean I do not feel deeply. Actually I don’t think any other temperament other than melancholic feel as deeply and passionate as we do. It may not express itself in the mushy way that Mels do but it’s there, a slow bubbling volcano of emotion waiting to burst forth.

What makes me cry? Well I don’t know how to describe it but this video will give you an idea.

If superman cried the world would panic and so superman does not cry. Not because he does not feel pain but simply because he cannot allow himself to. Superman does not cry before the people even if he is moved to because in times of trial and turmoil someone needs to keep their heads about the. And so superman cannot cry.

But when superman does cry, the world trembles and shakes, heaving under the burden and weight of his grief.

When superman cries, vengeance resolute is the result. Strength unimaginable comes forth.

When superman cries, promises are made, loyalty paid back.

When superman cries, each tear a molten drop of emotions singes the ground forever recording the plight that brought it forth.

When superman cries the world remember.

When superman cries, sadly the world rarely finds out, because the world needs a strong man to look to, so superman rarely cries…except in the confines of his heart and castle.

Before his God he weeps, on his bed he moans and groans, under the weight of his grief he sobs and the halls echo with his voice. When superman cries, he weeps and the world stands silent.

When superman cries he weeps.

But superman does not the luxury of grief for superman is after all Supermen and the world needs him. So he dons his cape, bottles up his tiers and rises forth to meet the new days yellow sun, drawing strength to be strong for those for whom he first became Superman.

Family Portraits: Broken home. Broken lives. Broken kids.

I turn a juicy 30 in a year or so. Not quite the dried out wrinkled raisin but I have enough life under my belt to make some fairly accurate Observations.

Broken homes.

The generation of our fathers were the last of an old stock. In Uganda, they probably are the last to have seen three presidents and lived through Amin’s reign of terror. They are the last of the baby boomers. They still hang on to traditions like going to the village, the opinions of the public still determine how and why they do things.

The mothers of this generation are enduring symbols of strength. Most of them have endured the hardship of raising children in an uncertain times and making due with the little that the ripped economy could offer. They were your everyday run of the mill MacGyver’s. They were cooks able to scrounge up a feast with a tomato, half an onion and some dried out greens. They were doctors and nurses who only rushed to the hospital when all home remedies, both theirs and the supermoms in the neighbourhoods had failed or when sickness and injury dropped on their loved ones like a ten tonne bomb.

They stood tall, like the ageless rocks, filled with so much wisdom, and love but like the other side of the coin they struck terror into our childish hearts when we crossed the line. My mom’s favourite weapon was her hard rubber Bata sandal. Many a Ugandan bottom turned blacker after a few good whacks and when all tears were dried, her voice and hands soothed the skin she had bruised. Moms were everything.

Like the rocks the endured another silent torture, one that only they and their kind could endure. They tolerated marriages that died a long time ago to raise their children and provide a stable environment for their precious buds, the seeds of their labour to grow and blossom, nursing hopes, in their heart that they would not have to go through what their mothers had. They took the tongue lashing and the tongue wagging, braced only by the hope that tomorrow would be a better day…not for them, but for their children.

Fathers of this generation were the last of a patriarchal breed. They were never wrong, they were not to be trifled with and they were as stoic and unmoving as a tick on a buffalo’s rump. They were the lions and the jewels. The roamed the grasslands with no equal. They had those silly rituals they insisted on that showed that they were THE MAN of the house. When they got back, tea was served of course after the dotting young sons had taken off their shoes and brought their slipper.

The slumped in a chair, slurped their tea as they perused the newspaper. They then lumbered to the bathroom where hot water, cooled to just the right temperature was waiting and after they had washed away the grime and tension of a hard day, lumbered back to the sitting room and plumped back into the chair, turned on the TV to watch the news and have their supper. This was their routine.

Most of us remember the whole concept of dads chair, dad’s cup and plate etc. if you do not; well you are blessed and should think on your good fortune.

They had one thing in common, there were never really there and when we grew up we were informed that we were not alone for our fathers had scattered their seeds far and wide. For some this realisation was at their father’s funeral, when the many children and wives gathered all vying for a share of his spoils. For others this realisation was much sooner but none the less abrupt. A stranger invited into the home and you informed that you were going to share your room with a new brother almost your age or older.

For me this came when we shifted and my mom did not join us. My new mother was already ensconced in the new residence and my brothers and sisters from another mother waited me. The rest is history.

Broken Lives.

Could they do things any different? After all their fathers were just like that. They sprouted from the earth of polygamy and conquest. They knew no other. Their mothers were powerless, mere property; they could not alter the course of this tide. Into the mouths of their babes they squeezed their life blood in the hope that their desire would be heard by the ear a child has for his mother. But alas this was not to be...

And so they put together new families like ill cut jigsaw puzzles.   Of course there was to be no discussion. His word was law. This chapter is too long to write but just know when we watched fairy tales we understood because we too had our evil step mothers. Some were mistreated while some were just ignored, left to the hands of neglect.

That is that rock onto which the China Cups that were our little vulnerable lives were dashed never to be gathered again. Our Humpty Dumpty experience was begun. The king’s horses or the king’s men could not put us back together again.

Words I have, but alas patience and time I do not. I could fill a book with the injustices perceived and real I suffered. The physical stuff is easy to get over, humans are made to survive those, but the emotional stuff was just too much.

It is at this point that the heroes our fathers were pulled to the ground. His castle, nothing but a man child apparition, sand washed away by the rising tide of his children’s hurt, hate and resentment.

We soldier on for what can children do? We transformed ourselves into child soldiers, true infantry, for the battle that was our home. Through this we had to live through the chaos and confusion that was puberty, another one of life curve balls.

We soldier on and somehow we make it. We travel forward through time doing school and finally university and then our first job. I cannot even begin to unravel the dilemmas we face on the way as the past; the reality of my parents is washed away by new norms and cultures.

I cannot even begin to explain the back breaking nerve racking balancing act to please our parents and fulfil their age old ways and follow the trends of our times. To integrate digital mind-sets to analogue mind-sets.

We were the new kids on the block they the old guys from the village.

Broken kids.

It’s only now, at the threshold of 30, that I begin to deal with some of the baggage from the past. I know what you may be thinking, you may think that maybe I should have done this a long time ago and maybe I would agree. But the past 7 or so years I have been too busy growing and dodging every bullet life has shot at me and its only now, armed with some experience, growth, peace and a knowledge of myself can I go back and look into those trunks packed so many years ago, and one by one deal with the broken kid in them.

The armour is not too big nor the sword too heavy. I am a   man now but I have to deal with the nightmares of a child. There are some dragons in my past that need slaying before I go on.

Hookers, Spies and God

Lately I have been a little enthralled my RAHAB. You can read the story in this unpopular best seller called the Bible. She was a woman of the night who saved enemies of the state in which she lived in just so she could get a cut of the state cake when the new bosses hit town.

Okay, that’s not entirely true telling of the events.

Some commentaries that I have read while researching this subject say she was an inn keeper. The little Biblical record mentions no such thing. It clearly says she was a prostitute.

In dealing with her, many of us just remember that she saved the spies and got them out of a tight spot and for that she and her household were saved…and that was that. But enter the women movement and we remember that she was the mother of Boaz and they both were part of the genealogy of Jesus of Nazareth, Saviour of the world.

In this brief look at her life we miss many things. I have said before that I love the real life stories or the realities in stories and Bible stories are chocked full with them.

Rahab was probable very poor. She lived on the city wall which was reserved for the poor. In ancient times as cities grew so did their fortifications and the poor or those engaged in noxious trades took up these quarters. They were cheaper I would imagine. Sort of like modern day slum dwelling.

She was a prostitute. If it’s hard now you can imagine what it was back then. The emotional and social trauma she suffered must have been immense. It was not hard to understand why the spies chose her house, no one would be surprised to see strange men go in and out of her abode at all manner of the night.

“Rahab was a Canaanite woman who ran an “Inn” in Jericho. It was actually a house of prostitution where men could spend the night with the woman of their choice. Murray Johnson writes:

“It is very important that we understand what the text really says about Rahab. It says Rahab was a harlot. What better place for the spies to hide out than at Rahab’s house? With all the comings and goings of a whorehouse, they could blend in easily. However, these men were on a righteous mission. “

Rahab was a prostitute herself. As a Canaanite, she was also a worshipper of a great number of deities of the Canaan religion, including Baal (god of fertility), Dagon (god of the crops) and Molech (god of fire).”

She was probably a single parent unless of course when she pleaded for mercy for her and her household she meant her 100 pet cats and camel. Who was part of her family we can only guess at but she was not a prostitute for the retirement plan, health benefits of great social standing it offered.

She was a liar and a pretty good one at that. The soldiers did not even bother to check out her story but listened at once and went where she sent them; probably because they were all anxious to get out of her house lest she recognises one of them and call them by name…I don’t know.

But I also suspect she was a strong woman. To take all the stigma that came her way, and make the choices she made to feed her family was not easy feat.

She was industrious. It was probable that she used her house as lodging, with “room service” at extra cost. She was also able to recognise an opportunity to save herself when she met the spies.

She was a mother and compassionate, her batter was for her, her house hold and her mother and father. She honoured them and pleaded for their lives as well.

This for me, not just the saving of the spies are the reasons she is part of that great family tree that brought us a saviour but this also, shows me that value not something that is easily removed no matter our circumstances in life, we can still be more than what “life” hands us.

Now the sermon:

God always calls people as they are just so he can fashion then into who they really were, as he originally created them. No iron worker conjures up a sword from a heap of iron ore but through great skill and process fashions a blade that will one day slay a dragon.

Keep calm and carry on, God isn’t done with you yet.

just in case we forget...

Rahab’s confession of faith.

She declared, “…for the Lord your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below.” – Joshua 2:11

The Bible is about real people not fantastic super heroes. Real people doing everyday things that God elevated. Don't get sucked in by the Christian Super Hero Craze, that's just hype. The "champions of faith" were just believers who lived what they believed every day simply.

De·pres·sion

There are a couple of things I would like to write about today. One of them is depression.

de·pres·sion  

/diˈpreSHən/

Noun 1.      Severe despondency and dejection, accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy. 2.      A condition of mental disturbance, typically with lack of energy and difficulty in maintaining concentration or interest in life. Synonyms dejection - hollow 3.        This has never been something that I am comfortable talking about. I am not even sure why I am writing about it cause some of these things are too close to heart to leave to the whims of the internet nor am I the talking type…especially on such matter. Perhaps it’s because I had my second minor episode recently and I have had lows most of my life after that. I never even knew I was depressed until I got out of it. I don’t know how I got into it and even how I got out of it. I just know that I was in it. I have witnessed my own shares of sadness of life experiences but non as dark as the one I suffered while at university. It was one of the darkest times of my life and I say that with no hyperbole. I am dead serious. Even now I can remember what I felt, what my days were like. I wondered where the sun had gone and that when it came out how come I could not feel its hear. I remember being a zombie of sorts in that period, I went to class but after a few minutes I was bored senseless. At first I was confused as hell. I could not explain what this was all about. I had never been out of control and laughter had never been far from my lips but here I was despondent as a wet feline. I felt had just taken residence in the orbit of a black hole and all my life was just being sucked out and every minute of the day. Funny how i was always up early during this time something that I struggled with all my life. I was almost always up with the first rays of the sun. I was highly organized and neat. I don’t think my various abodes have suffered such meticulous cleaning since. I showered, had breakfast, washed up and cleaned my room and then just went back to bed, curled up into a the nearest possible fetal position my stocky frame would allow and drift in and out of sleep, a kind of swing between ponderous waking thoughts and twitchy dreams. I can remember my room quite well, small, and quaint almost, with no ceiling, revealing the underside of the clay tiles on the roof. I remember wondering how it never leaked as I expected it to when it rained. I remember the grey metal framed office chair with the think cushions and how it matched with my monochrome grey tv. I remember the yellow painted walls with the uneven plaster and the brown of the custom table-shelf, the only other furniture in my room. I vividly remember all these things because I spent almost a month within those four small walls, withdrawn from friends and all the things I loved only coming out when I was too hungry or my bread had run out. Those were dark days. And then recently an old familiar despondency descended. I was up early as usual but that same lifelessness had crept up on me. I just lay there…I did not want to do anything. It was then that I decided, “hey, maybe it’s time to face this again and maybe, just maybe admit that I could be prone to depression”. That maybe I should be doing something about it. I called up a very close friend, and she was terrified. In fact I texted her and she called back worried. I was touched. Looking back I have had my moments and near missed but I have soldiered on. I have refused to allow my life be ruled by something that I believe the God I believe in can help me not just deal with but eventually overcome. But I need to continually realize that this is something that can happen and that I need to be on my watch and on my guard and I need to constantly watch for patterns and triggers. There is so much more to this tale than I can bear to remember and type, perhaps in many more post to come. In case you have some of these symptoms it does not mean you are depressed but I shall highlight the ones that I did have and I think are real indicators. Again, please note that some of these symptoms occur in other scenarios as well so I guess professional help may be a good Idea. It was important for me to not lose hold on my faith so I read my Bible diligently during this that in the hopes that when God did move, he would kind some kindling stored up within me from which to start a fire to get be all warmed up inside and back to sanity. I don’t know if it worked, but I know those words were a line that I gripped on tight and the fear of total insanity in some strange way kept me sane.

Psychological symptoms include: continuous low mood or sadness feeling hopeless and helpless having low self-esteem  feeling tearful feeling guilt-ridden feeling irritable and intolerant of others  having no motivation or interest in things finding it difficult to make decisions not getting any enjoyment out of life feeling anxious or worried  having suicidal thoughts or thoughts of harming yourself Physical symptoms include: Moving or speaking more slowly than usual  change in appetite or weight (usually decreased, but sometimes increased)  constipation  unexplained aches and pains lack of energy or lack of interest in sex (loss of libido) changes to your menstrual cycle disturbed sleep (for example, finding it hard to fall asleep at night or waking up very early in the morning) Social symptoms include: not doing well at work taking part in fewer social activities and avoiding contact with friends neglecting your hobbies and interests having difficulties in your home and family life   NOTE TO TEENAGERS READING THIS Just because you are “having difficulties in your home and family life” does not mean you are depressed though I do admit such scenarios can be depressing.