This is the kind of post best written in retrospect, rather than in the moment.It’s about depression. Hiding from the world: a situationally based despondency that obliterated my motivation, supplanted by inertia and a dark, dank sense of hopelessness.

It’s been more than a year and a half since Billboard decided its bottom line was more propitious than paying experienced journalists. In one tidy sweep over the course of three months, most every veteran, obviously including me amid a 14-year run, was on their ass—including three of the professionals whose work I most admired long before I got my dream gig.

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Last month, on my blog, I posted an entry outlining every job I’ve been paid for over the past three decades. I’ve got another to add to the long list: mystery shopper. After enduring a grueling online competency exam, I was approved to be one of those dudes checking up on you to see how well you’re doing your job.

In the past week, I visited five retailers to inquire about specific services and did the same at a local movie theater (sorry, can’t offer details!). Yes, it’s come to this: I’ll whore myself out for a buck any day. Actually, more like $120, not a bad booty call for the effort involved.

I ran into a friend of mine today who used to be an SVP with a major record label and like me, she was laid off (actually, four times over the past decade, thanks to continual downsizing). She was saying that in time, she didn’t miss what the music biz has become and had lost her mojo for being out until 3 a.m. every night at events… I could really relate, after 14 years as a writer and editor for Billboard magazine in New York. Now that’s it been more than a year since Billboard replaced me and many of my co-workers with younger, cheaper “journalists,” frankly, it’s becoming more and more difficult to imagine being somebody’s bitch.

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We all knew it was going to be bad news. That Wednesday afternoon, Feb. 25, 2009, the publisher of Radio & Records, had called a “Town Hall” meeting for all staff, both on the East and West Coasts. He, in fact, had flown from New York to L.A., along with the head of human resources. If that’s not a sign, then the sky is green.

Our New York bureau comprised the smaller group of staffers for R&R—my editor P, a sprinkling of fellow editors and writers, and the charts department—all shared with Billboard. As the conference call began at 3 p.m., we shifted anxiously. “As we all know, these have been difficult times in publishing, with ad revenues down and a challenging economy,” H, the publisher began. “Unfortunately, today is not going to be a good day for R&R. There are going to be layoffs.”

And then—in what might possibly be among the cruelest, if not least professional methods to follow up such an announcement—we were told to return to our desks and wait for a phone call, which would then reveal our fate. Apparently, the publisher was a pro when it came to “Layoffs for Dummies.” I sat, locked at my cubicle, explaining this unorthodox maneuver to my Billboard co-workers, when… ring.

It was editor P, asking me to join him in the human resources office. It took all of two seconds to figure this one out: My boss is calling. He sounds tense. If I’m staying, why would I be called into human resources? Standing up, I announced, “It’s me.”

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