So, on acounna whatever combination of genetics and singular touchiness and being a special delicate flower in this wintry world, I shlep around a diagnosis of depression, now very very much in remission or hey, you know what, CURED now with the help of the things that help that sort of thing. Anyway, as anyone who is or considers themselves* to be or would like to be depressed knows, people like to talk about their depression in humanland and on the internet. I know! Me too! They like to pick it up and examine it and compare it to yours and reflect with you and create their narrative.
I am making a conscious decision to cut that out right here and now, and to not engage in conversations or read writings on it. You know why? It's depressing! Not just in the sense of reading about downers is a downer, no, there is something about the rhythm of the language and the reaching and the searching that mimics the dark waves of the feeling itself. And then you are kind of diluted and you are like, I recognize this dilution... could it be...? Is it...? Bc you have just been reading about depression, so you know, you are predisposed to blame things on it. And then you get worried that you're getting depressed, and none of it would have happened if people kept that crap off their blogs!
Despite everything I know about teh neurochem, the old complaint about depressives being self-indulgent kind of resonates with me. But like, what are you going to do, not indulge your brain?
*I am so so fine with using they as a singular pronoun. Stuff it, perscriptivists!