Melancholia

A number of my friends, both Real Life and online, have been having problems with depression recently.

I'm in a strange position with respect to depression. I had a couple of acute episodes in late adolescence, so I know - I remember - what it was like. On the other hand, they were acute episodes, lasting a couple of months each. I've never actually had to deal with _chronic_ depression. And, in that, I'm a little unusual; most people who suffer from depression suffer from it long-term. Under normal circumstances, I'm somewhat dysthymic - which means that I sense pleasure or fun less easily than the average person - but other than making me a bit of a party pooper with a dry sense of humor, it doesn't affect my everyday life that much.

But I remember what it was like. And that means that some people, who have never really known depression or even ordinary despair, are really, totally starting to piss me off.

Not that I envy them; not at all. People who have never known Melancholia's company at all are - well - invariably shallow. How can a soul that has never been bruised know where its boundaries are? I think there's a line in _The Play About the Baby_ that goes something like "If you have no broken heart, how can you know who you are?"

No, the problem is that they always have "helpful" responses to depression (or mourning, or grief; I don't think they generally see a difference) along the lines of "Cheer up!" or "Count your blessings," or, worst of all, "Suck it up, soldier! Get over it!" And they honestly think these vinegar-dipped platitudes will help, that they even mean something. These people have no clue.

The above phrases aren't helpful even for a temporary grief. For depression, they're nothing less than a taunt, a flaunting of one's wellness, like inviting someone whose leg is broken to join you on your pogo stick.

Churchill called it the "black dog". J. K. Rowling turned it into the worst monster she could think of, the dementor (and set Sirius the black dog against it, oddly enough). But neither gets at the worst part of depression. Seeing it as something outside yourself is something you can only do on the way out. When you're in it, it's inside of you. It's hard to tell it from yourself. The boundaries between are fuzzy at best. How can you "get over" something that's lodged like a tumor at your center?

In some ways, I almost think that the shallow people are afraid to let themselves feel grief. Anger is much more fashionable. You get mad, you scream some obscenities, you smash up some furniture or punch someone's gut - you might get in trouble, but no one will think the less of you, right? You get sad, you sigh, you stare mournfully into space, you maybe cry a little - somehow, that makes you weak. What's weak about expressing sadness that's not also weak about losing it in anger? Why is it okay to rage, but not to cry?

Does this all come from the same place that says that casual sex with a stranger is more macho than sex with a friend?

Can I buy a new culture, please?

Melancholia

A number of my friends, both Real Life and online, have been having problems with depression recently.

I'm in a strange position with respect to depression. I had a couple of acute episodes in late adolescence, so I know - I remember - what it was like. On the other hand, they were acute episodes, lasting a couple of months each. I've never actually had to deal with _chronic_ depression. And, in that, I'm a little unusual; most people who suffer from depression suffer from it long-term. Under normal circumstances, I'm somewhat dysthymic - which means that I sense pleasure or fun less easily than the average person - but other than making me a bit of a party pooper with a dry sense of humor, it doesn't affect my everyday life that much.

But I remember what it was like. And that means that some people, who have never really known depression or even ordinary despair, are really, totally starting to piss me off.

Not that I envy them; not at all. People who have never known Melancholia's company at all are - well - invariably shallow. How can a soul that has never been bruised know where its boundaries are? I think there's a line in _The Play About the Baby_ that goes something like "If you have no broken heart, how can you know who you are?"

No, the problem is that they always have "helpful" responses to depression (or mourning, or grief; I don't think they generally see a difference) along the lines of "Cheer up!" or "Count your blessings," or, worst of all, "Suck it up, soldier! Get over it!" And they honestly think these vinegar-dipped platitudes will help, that they even mean something. These people have no clue.

The above phrases aren't helpful even for a temporary grief. For depression, they're nothing less than a taunt, a flaunting of one's wellness, like inviting someone whose leg is broken to join you on your pogo stick.

Churchill called it the "black dog". J. K. Rowling turned it into the worst monster she could think of, the dementor (and set Sirius the black dog against it, oddly enough). But neither gets at the worst part of depression. Seeing it as something outside yourself is something you can only do on the way out. When you're in it, it's inside of you. It's hard to tell it from yourself. The boundaries between are fuzzy at best. How can you "get over" something that's lodged like a tumor at your center?

In some ways, I almost think that the shallow people are afraid to let themselves feel grief. Anger is much more fashionable. You get mad, you scream some obscenities, you smash up some furniture or punch someone's gut - you might get in trouble, but no one will think the less of you, right? You get sad, you sigh, you stare mournfully into space, you maybe cry a little - somehow, that makes you weak. What's weak about expressing sadness that's not also weak about losing it in anger? Why is it okay to rage, but not to cry?

Does this all come from the same place that says that casual sex with a stranger is more macho than sex with a friend?

Can I buy a new culture, please?