How Jim Carrey Helped Raptors Icon DeMor DeRozan Cope With Depression

The house was empty. The house was finally quiet with the girls sleeping upstairs. But instead of peace and calm, the voices of my youth filled my mind. A few hours passed, and I was finally able to get off the couch and go upstairs to try and get a full night’s sleep for the first time. I had it for what seemed like 30 days but maybe 30 minutes. Defeated, I grabbed my phone and started scrolling aimlessly on YouTube. Finally, I found an interview with Jim Carrey talking about mental health and depression. I’ve always been fascinated by Jim Carrey. But not because of his movies or any character he played.

As far as I can remember, I have been fascinated by the life stories of people who overcome a harsh environment or grow up and make something of themselves. His speech was at the top of my list. I wanted to know how different someone’s upbringing was from mine. It was like all those hours when I was alone on the beach at night, lost in the moon and wondering what else was out there. I knew the world was better than Compton—for better and for worse. As bad as it was where I grew up, I knew that others had their own experiences to overcome. I wanted to know what motivated them.

Carrie was born and raised in Canada near Toronto. When he was 12, his father lost his job and he became homeless. Jim, his parents, and his three siblings—picked up shifts as janitors, and his family lived in a yellow Volkswagen bus in a campground for months. Carrie dropped out of high school to work in a factory and support the family. With a dream to change their fortunes forever, he is driven to climb the comedy ladder out of poverty. Sure enough, by 21 he was on “The Tonight Show.” Unbelievable.

My favorite Jim Carrey story: Long before he was a movie star, when he didn’t have a pot to cook, he wrote himself a check for $10 million and dated it 10 years into the future. He kept it in his wallet for years. Just before the day was over, he landed a “dumb and dumb” job that paid him exactly $10 million. His father passed away before the film came out. At the burial, he left the cashed check in his father’s pocket.

When talking about how Carrie grew up, I started thinking about my own childhood. My uncle Kevin is dying. My cousin spent my childhood locked up. Davian. Countless other friends and family members were gunned down. All funerals. The feeling of having to take everything into account every time you step onto the court.

The difference between sadness and depression, Carey explains in the interview, is that sadness is a result of things happening to you.

“Depression,” on the other hand, he said, “is your body saying, ‘F—- you, I don’t want to be this character anymore.'” I turned up the volume and sat up straighter.

The word “depression” is another way of saying “deep rest” to him, which is what your body and mind call for in your low moments. It’s a concept he said he learned from British writer and self-help guru Jeff Foster.

The more I listened, the more familiar it felt. I started making connections. It was as if all these seemingly unrelated parts of my life had become intertwined. Sleepless nights. My childhood was burdened and pressured to succeed. Shocked for a lifetime.

I have never been diagnosed with depression. S—-, I never went to therapy — well, years ago, the Raptors hired a team therapist to talk to us. I didn’t take it seriously at all. I was too young, too proud, too naive about the whole process. I held one session in a temporary office at the Air Canada hub in Toronto. Yes, yes, childhood is rough, blah blah blah. I couldn’t let myself go into therapy because, one, I didn’t know how, and two, I didn’t want to consider that a therapist could actually help me solve my problems.

I had built such an impenetrable wall as a child. It’s like if I can’t connect with you, I won’t be comfortable enough to open myself up to you. I’ve always thought of it like if you go to a movie theater and there are two rows of people – one full of people you know and the other full of complete strangers. Which row do you sit in? I carried that immature mindset with me into that therapy session. You don’t know me, you don’t know what I’ve been through. You’re asking the questions you’ve been taught to ask so you can get whatever you’re trying to get out of me. It’s like coming to school and asking the teacher where the textbook gets its information from. How would you like to share my vibes with you?

But this was different. I felt like I was finally able to put a name to this feeling that I’ve been carrying around my whole life, and has amplified in recent months. By now it was almost 3am and I had another full calendar for the next day – all-star training, media availability, scheduled appearances, reunions with family and friends. I cooked a lot and wanted to escape. I hopped in the shower before going to sleep, trying to wash away this feeling. It didn’t go well. I got out, dried off, and went to bed, dreading having to do this again tomorrow.

Usually when I feel something, I hold onto it until the feeling eventually goes away. This time – and I can’t explain – I wrote it down for all the world to see. I grabbed my cell phone, opened Twitter, typed “This depression is giving me the best…” and hit send. I silently turned on the phone and closed my eyes and lay back down. I could feel my head sinking into the pillow. Deep relaxation, I thought. That’s what I want. Little by little the noise in my head started to subside.

When I checked my phone the next morning, I was greeted with missed calls and text messages. what the hell? At first I thought someone had died, but half of the missed calls were from my agent, Aaron (Goodwin). I managed a few good hours of sleep, but the day started early because I had to drive across town to downtown LA for media day on the Saturday of Star weekend. Even though I was tired, I put on a hoodie and put my phone in my pants pocket. I kissed the girls goodbye and went down the street.

The phone rang in the car – it was my agent again – this time I picked it up. I’ve had the same agent since I left college. He is practically family to me. “Dude, that tweet you sent out,” he said, sounding anxious and scared and on edge, “the NBA asking if you’re okay.”

“The league office is worried about you. They want to schedule a wellness check. Besides,” he said, “I had reporters calling me incessantly. I’m sure you’ll be asked about this all day.”

I thought he was more responsive. The way I saw it, all I did was share an honest moment—the kind of thing countless people feel on any given day. None of us realized it at the time, but it was a perspective that a player of my caliber didn’t express on such a platform.

When I arrived at the convention center, I was ushered into a ballroom with a long row of tables filled with basketballs for me to sign. My shoulders slumped. I wanted to go back home and hang with the girls. I picked up a silver sharpie and started scribbling my name.

“Hey, Dee, how are you?”

I looked up to see a pair of my all-star teammates, Kyrie Irving and Kevin Love. I was struck by the concern in their voices. Or maybe it’s the way they look at me differently. “No, really, is everything okay?”

“Me? “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, “what about you two?”

I wrote my tweets in a moment of vulnerability and transparency. But that moment passed. Now I was at work, so to speak, doing my duty. So I suppressed my true feelings and swept them all under the rug and went back to being me. Deep down, their concern meant a lot to me.

When it came time to face the media, things went well. As I took my seat on a stage surrounded by microphones, a meaty hand gave me a big pat on the back. I looked over my shoulder: it was Kyle (Lori). I felt a little more relaxed. I questioned for more than half an hour. About the Raptors’ playoff struggles and why this season has changed. There weren’t many questions about my tweets about my homecoming weekend in LA. Hardly anyone knows how to ask me about it.

A few days later I interviewed longtime Raptors reporter Doug Smith for the Toronto Star. I opened up in more detail about my challenges with mental health, the struggles of my upbringing, and the scars you carry with you when you grow up in that world. “One of them is that no matter how indelible we may seem, at the end of the day we’re all human,” I said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

When I was young I didn’t feel comfortable enough to start sharing my story. This was new to me. It wasn’t a conversation I ever had with my parents or friends because where I grew up you guarded your feelings and never showed any sign of weakness no matter what. Like dad playing dominoes, everything seems normal, he can’t feel his limbs.

I was worried that by talking about depression, the burden and feeling of exhaustion I had carried since childhood, I would hurt Mom and Dad. I didn’t want them to feel like they weren’t there for me, or didn’t do enough. After my media session, I spoke to each of them. I wanted them to know that nothing could be further from the truth. I owe them everything. My parents were active in my life, they showed me love, they guided me – and most people I know have more to say about their situation. Mom and Dad were with me when I called them. They told me they understood and were proud of me too, and that they knew something was simmering beneath the surface. Although none of us could recognize it at the time, they have seen it at every stage of my life. Ultimately, it brought us closer.

My tweet sparked conversations. On Sunday, the morning of the All-Star Game, Players Association President Michelle Roberts was asked about mental health in an interview. “We are naive – and I’m being kind when I say naive – we don’t want to address … the mental health of our players,” she added, adding, “It’s a shame this didn’t happen. Focused long ago.”

I inadvertently brought the topic of mental health awareness to light. But life in the NBA can be very fast. By the end of the all-star game the next day, it started twitching again like someone had snapped a finger.