Oh, oh, oh... just when I'd traversed practically the whole comment tree without tearing up, and then you come along and pin my tribulations like a rather tattered and dowdy butterfly to a corkboard, and suddenly my screen malfunctioned and went all blurry. Dratted screen.
Sometimes I think depression could almost be defined as the disease where we think it's "all just me", and where we're convinced we'd effortlessly surmount it if we had just a little more energy or grit or that intrinsic personal worth that we so abjectly and manifestly fail to have even the faintest vestige of (*inhale*) and therefore we're too insignificant even to be worthless and the world would be better off &c. &c.
And then one day we stick a hand up and gurgle out, "... drowning!". And the astonishing thing is that from time to time, someone does actually reach down, grab our worthless insignificant selves, and pull. A miracle, of the kind that makes screens turn blurry.
On shame: yes, me too. But little by little I accommodated it, and as I gingerly exposed it to the outside world, I found that the world accommodated it too. After seven years of taking the little brain sweeties, I now keep a strip of 'em on my desk at work and pop one at morning coffee.
So: for the most part, the neurochemically-normative sector of the population seems to be unflustered by those of us that need pharmacological fine-tuning. At least, that's my experience—if anyone has reservations, they sure haven't bothered me with them.
I rather suspect the citalopram will be on my desk forever. Once upon a time I railed against that. Now I accept it, with only a faint disgruntled sigh, as a vastly superior alternative to the alternative alternative.
What am I talking about? I don't know exactly; maybe I'm just savouring the relief of talking to people on a natural resonant wavelength, rather than forcing myself to the more hectic frequency that our society seems to favour. Or maybe I'm offering you a parable on how one rather second-hand human critter learned to stop worrying and wear its failings on its sleeve, and found that people didn't actually ostracise it (Before And After! This Too Could Be You!). Or maybe I'm just wittering. Or venting some of my own grievedness. Or offering vacuous talk as phatic support.
No; actually I'm doing all of the above.
Do look after yourself. And us. As we you. I hope.
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regna
(no subject)
Date: 2013-09-29 10:34 am (UTC)Sometimes I think depression could almost be defined as the disease where we think it's "all just me", and where we're convinced we'd effortlessly surmount it if we had just a little more energy or grit or that intrinsic personal worth that we so abjectly and manifestly fail to have even the faintest vestige of (*inhale*) and therefore we're too insignificant even to be worthless and the world would be better off &c. &c.
And then one day we stick a hand up and gurgle out, "... drowning!". And the astonishing thing is that from time to time, someone does actually reach down, grab our worthless insignificant selves, and pull. A miracle, of the kind that makes screens turn blurry.
On shame: yes, me too. But little by little I accommodated it, and as I gingerly exposed it to the outside world, I found that the world accommodated it too. After seven years of taking the little brain sweeties, I now keep a strip of 'em on my desk at work and pop one at morning coffee.
So: for the most part, the neurochemically-normative sector of the population seems to be unflustered by those of us that need pharmacological fine-tuning. At least, that's my experience—if anyone has reservations, they sure haven't bothered me with them.
I rather suspect the citalopram will be on my desk forever. Once upon a time I railed against that. Now I accept it, with only a faint disgruntled sigh, as a vastly superior alternative to the alternative alternative.
What am I talking about? I don't know exactly; maybe I'm just savouring the relief of talking to people on a natural resonant wavelength, rather than forcing myself to the more hectic frequency that our society seems to favour. Or maybe I'm offering you a parable on how one rather second-hand human critter learned to stop worrying and wear its failings on its sleeve, and found that people didn't actually ostracise it (Before And After! This Too Could Be You!). Or maybe I'm just wittering. Or venting some of my own grievedness. Or offering vacuous talk as phatic support.
No; actually I'm doing all of the above.
Do look after yourself. And us. As we you. I hope.