When the Funny Guy Could Not Laugh It Off

For much of his life, Jaret would not have known how to explain anxiety because he believed he had never experienced it.

At least, not in a way he recognized.

Then, as he approached forty, several parts of his life destabilized at once: divorce, a move into a new house, uncertainty involving custody, the death of his beloved Yorkie, Allie, and a period when the future of Bowling For Soup felt less secure than it ever had.

What initially felt like stress became physically and emotionally overwhelming.

Jaret experienced panic attacks, severe anxiety and depression. He stopped moving. He drank more. He ate. He gained weight. Some days, getting his children to school, feeding his animals and returning to bed felt like the full extent of what he could manage.

Being the person others expected to make the room happier made the experience more confusing.

He was supposed to be the funny one.

The positive one.

The person with the good life.

That did not make him immune.

Casey—then his girlfriend—encouraged him to begin counseling. He also spoke honestly to his doctor. He learned that finding the right medication could require patience rather than one appointment and an immediate fix.

That was frightening. Coming from a family with a history of addiction, Jaret had always been wary of pills. He was also already taking daily medication for ulcerative colitis, a chronic illness he had lived with since nineteen.

When his counselor finally told him he was severely depressed, his first instinct was to reject the diagnosis.

Then came relief.

Then breath.

Then the feeling that he was standing and walking a little taller.

There was a name for what was happening.

That meant there might also be a way through it.

Therapy, medication, medical care, honesty and time helped Jaret regain his footing. They did not transform him into someone who never struggles. They gave him language, tools and people he could call when the warning signs returned.

In 2017, he was asked to speak about his experience for Louder Than Stigma, a project created by Dr. Peter Thomas, who is also the singer for Dallas band Slow Roosevelt. Immediately after the interview, Jaret contacted his publicists and asked them to make sure this did not become some ongoing cause attached to him.

He did not want to become “the sad funny guy who got fat.”

Then the messages started arriving.

His words had made an impact.

Mental-health advocacy became more than something adjacent to his music. Jaret has described it as one of the reasons he believes he is here. He works closely with Punk Rock Saves Lives and serves on its board. He continues to work with Dr. Thomas and the Dallas-based organization Amplified Minds, as well as UPRAWR and Tough Enough To Care in the United Kingdom. He consistently supports organizations and conversations that make it easier for people to ask for help.

He has also spoken publicly about living with ulcerative colitis—at home and on the road—and the need for honest conversations around physical health.

His message is not that everything becomes easy.

It is that saying something out loud can make it slightly less impossible.

It is that communicating with other people can help you and, often, help them too—even when the first step is simply helping someone understand.

It is that the person who appears happiest may still be fighting to get through the day.

It is that needing medication, therapy or support is not failure.

And it is this:

No matter how fucked up you believe the world is, it is better with you in it.

Jaret also supports animal welfare and cancer research, both for deeply personal reasons. His compassion tends to become action. When something affects the people or animals he loves, he wants to help make it better.

None of this is to suggest that he has no baggage. A major part of Jaret’s mental-health journey has been learning to forgive both himself and others for what he calls “some fucked-up shit.”