I get incredibly irritated by people who tell me that Depression is an indulgence. I wouldn’t pay the Pope for this even if he got down on his knees and begged.
Depression is not like chocolate. You don’t wake up at 3am and think you’ll indulge in some double-mint melancholy nor do you break out the mood disorder because you’ve had a rough day and just one decadent, luxurious piece will surely help. There’s nothing worth savouring about Depression. It doesn’t come in any new fantastic flavours, in fact it doesn’t come in any new varieties at all. It’s the very definition of same old, same old and it gets really old really fast.
I admit I can be, and have been, resistant to change, of any kind — good or bad. But that’s not indulgence. Nobody wants to have to change the way they see themselves. It’s not an easy process. It’s not like painting the walls a new colour. You can’t go back and change your mind again next week.
I don’t consider myself some helpless belle perpetually draped over the metaphorical fainting couch. When I change it’s with all guns blazing, and I make it a point to always get my man, in the end.
He’s still out there and I’ll get him, by golly. But we’re not talking about the movies here. This is reality in every gritty, disgusting detail and it’s a rare prize in itself. We call it life and it’s never the same twice.
I don’t indulge in despair. I hack through it. It’s a concrete jungle and I’m the lion. Alright, a cowardly lion at times but a lion nonetheless.
Despite thoughts to the contrary Depression is not a crutch. It doesn’t support jack. In fact, more often than not, it takes me down a few pegs on the evolutionary scale.
Yes, you can easily get trapped in a cycle of Depression but that still doesn’t make it a conscious decision. It doesn’t mean Depression is a tasty treat I love to hate. It’s a little bit ‘when rape is inevitable,’ and a whole lot of ‘get me the hell out of here.’
I fully understand and live the fact that Depression comes, in part, from my own thoughts, from the wellspring of my imagination and the depths of my experience and perspective but that doesn’t make it my creation. Depression is not something I sculpt because I think Emo is cool or just because I like to play the crazy card — because gee, the stigma is so much fun. You wait till all your friends stop talking to you and then tell me how good a time you’re having.
I don’t wake up and spread misery on my toast because it tastes so damn good. It tastes like stale cardboard with a side of warmed goat’s nuts and beetle juice. Does it sound appetising yet?
Because that’s how utterly ridiculous it is to tell me that Depression is an indulgence. Yes, just like those pesky victims of crime I indulge in the heavenly wonder that is having a mood disorder. Would you like to steal my wallet now, too?
Stop telling me I can simply switch off the pain if only I wanted it enough. I want it, more than anyone has ever wanted to indulge in any flight of fancy, more than any need I’ve ever known.
I don’t indulge in Depression because what I really need is to get well. I’m in the driver’s seat but I don’t always have enough gas, and that’s not a luxury. It’s a fact of life.
(Just so you know - this wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, today. It’s the product of a gradual accumulation of stupid remarks so I thought I’d rant for a while. It happens.)
I get incredibly irritated by people who tell me that Depression is an indulgence. I wouldn’t pay the Pope for this even if he got down on his knees and begged.
Depression is not like chocolate. You don’t wake up at 3am and think you’ll indulge in some double-mint melancholy nor do you break out the mood disorder because you’ve had a rough day and just one decadent, luxurious piece will surely help. There’s nothing worth savouring about Depression. It doesn’t come in any new fantastic flavours, in fact it doesn’t come in any new varieties at all. It’s the very definition of same old, same old and it gets really old really fast.
I admit I can be, and have been, resistant to change, of any kind — good or bad. But that’s not indulgence. Nobody wants to have to change the way they see themselves. It’s not an easy process. It’s not like painting the walls a new colour. You can’t go back and change your mind again next week.
I don’t consider myself some helpless belle perpetually draped over the metaphorical fainting couch. When I change it’s with all guns blazing, and I make it a point to always get my man, in the end.
He’s still out there and I’ll get him, by golly. But we’re not talking about the movies here. This is reality in every gritty, disgusting detail and it’s a rare prize in itself. We call it life and it’s never the same twice.
I don’t indulge in despair. I hack through it. It’s a concrete jungle and I’m the lion. Alright, a cowardly lion at times but a lion nonetheless.
Despite thoughts to the contrary Depression is not a crutch. It doesn’t support jack. In fact, more often than not, it takes me down a few pegs on the evolutionary scale.
Yes, you can easily get trapped in a cycle of Depression but that still doesn’t make it a conscious decision. It doesn’t mean Depression is a tasty treat I love to hate. It’s a little bit ‘when rape is inevitable,’ and a whole lot of ‘get me the hell out of here.’
I fully understand and live the fact that Depression comes, in part, from my own thoughts, from the wellspring of my imagination and the depths of my experience and perspective but that doesn’t make it my creation. Depression is not something I sculpt because I think Emo is cool or just because I like to play the crazy card — because gee, the stigma is so much fun. You wait till all your friends stop talking to you and then tell me how good a time you’re having.
I don’t wake up and spread misery on my toast because it tastes so damn good. It tastes like stale cardboard with a side of warmed goat’s nuts and beetle juice. Does it sound appetising yet?
Because that’s how utterly ridiculous it is to tell me that Depression is an indulgence. Yes, just like those pesky victims of crime I indulge in the heavenly wonder that is having a mood disorder. Would you like to steal my wallet now, too?
Stop telling me I can simply switch off the pain if only I wanted it enough. I want it, more than anyone has ever wanted to indulge in any flight of fancy, more than any need I’ve ever known.
I don’t indulge in Depression because what I really need is to get well. I’m in the driver’s seat but I don’t always have enough gas, and that’s not a luxury. It’s a fact of life.
(Just so you know - this wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, today. It’s the product of a gradual accumulation of stupid remarks so I thought I’d rant for a while. It happens.)