I Sold My Depression on Facebook Marketplace

I listed my depression on Facebook Marketplace at 3:07 a.m.

The post said:

"Used condition. Slightly heavy. Unwanted. Will trade for serotonin or cat memes. Local pickup only."

I thought it was a joke. A way to vent. A way to scream without really screaming. But five minutes later, I got a message from someone named Debbie M. Her profile picture was a blurry photo of a sunset and her bio said:

✨ Empath. Moon lover. I make my own soap ✨

Debbie M.: Is it still available?

Me: …Uh, yes?

Debbie M.: Will it fit in a hatchback?

Me: Depends how you fold it.

I don’t know what part of me kept playing along, but it felt good. Like my sadness had finally found something useful to do — make people laugh. Maybe the absurdity made the heaviness float for a second.

The next morning, I had six more messages.

One person wanted to trade my depression for “three crystals and a half-used Bath & Body Works candle.”

Another offered $20 and a burrito. Honestly, that felt more useful than therapy.

Another person just sent me a heart emoji and the message:

"Same."

Suddenly, I felt popular.

Popular... because of my sadness.

Is this what being an artist feels like?

By day three:

42 comments.

19 shares.

One person tried to tag their ex, writing: “You left this at my place.”

Someone else asked if it came in different colors.

But mixed in with the jokes came real messages. Raw ones.

“This made me laugh and cry. Thank you.”

“Hey, I’ve been there too. You’re not alone.”

“I needed to see this today. You reminded me I’m not crazy.”

I started replying. Not just with emojis or “thank you”s. Real replies. Vulnerable ones.

I told someone about crying in the cereal aisle because I couldn’t decide between Frosted Flakes or Raisin Bran. (Spoiler: I left with neither.)

I told another that sometimes my depression feels like a foggy radio — always on, never clear.

One woman said she carried hers like a purse.

A man wrote: “I tried to donate mine to Goodwill. They said they were full.”

Then came a message from a teen in Michigan.

She was quiet at first. Just liked the post. Then commented. Then messaged privately.

“I saw your post. I was thinking about ending things.”

“But it reminded me that life is stupid and weird and maybe I want to stick around a little longer. Just in case.”

I stared at the screen for a long time.

All I did was write a dumb joke ad. But maybe sadness doesn’t need to be cured — maybe it just wants to be seen. Acknowledged. Maybe it just needs a listing, a label, a price tag saying: “This exists. It matters.”

A week later, I marked the post as “SOLD.”

Not because my depression was gone. Not even close. But because something had shifted.

It felt a little lighter. Like someone had helped me carry it.

Like it was no longer just mine.

And isn’t that what we’re all doing?

Trying to pawn off our pain in clever ways, hoping someone says, “Me too,” or even just sends a meme?

I didn’t expect healing to look like a Facebook comment section.

But sometimes, the most human places are the strangest ones.

Sometimes it’s not the therapy or the medicine that cracks open the darkness.

Sometimes, it’s a blurry photo of a soap-making empath and a burrito trade offer.

Since then, I’ve started a small ritual.

Whenever the sadness creeps back in — like an old roommate slamming doors and leaving dishes in the sink — I open Marketplace and just imagine listing it again.

And I imagine someone else replying:

“Still available?”

“Willing to trade?”

“I’ll take it if no one else does.”

And somehow, that’s enough.

Maybe the cure isn’t to throw our sadness away.

Maybe it’s just to share it.

Fold it gently.

And see if it fits in a hatchback.