Quicksand
Let's discuss depression.
Supposedly, 1 in every 10 Americans has it. I can't imagine that 10% of the population are chronically depressed. That is a lot of people! Is it a function of the 20th century or of American life? Were morose and poetic people of the past simply clinically depressed?
Anyway. Statistics say it's true. The thing is, trying to explain it to the other 90% is difficult. Normal people also have bad days, sad moods, some even recognize that life is nothing but a constant shit storm. But the shit storm doesn't take over their lives. So, when they ask: Can't you just put this behind you? Or when they say: Don't think about that now. Do something active. Cheer yourself up. You need to talk it out.
Try to explain that no, you can't and it won't help, and also, why not!
It's like a quicksand trap. You feel that your foot has been caught, so you pull it out, but to get out of the quicksand, you need to step with the other foot, and as you do that, it sinks too; then you're in with both feet, up to the knees, and as you kick your feet more, soon you're up to the waist. Eventually, comes a moment when you realize that it is inevitable that you're about to get sucked down so you just allow it. You relax for a second, and then it's already enveloped you, and you're in the dark.
Sometimes, it's like a hole in your chest. It's a hole that some vermin inside you has gnawed into existence laboriously and persistently. It comes on slowly, expanding and expanding until you start to feel it all the time. It itches, but doesn't go away even with the deepest breaths of fresh air.
It's also been like a vise. Or a Chinese finger trap. The more you move, the tighter they crank it. You think, this will have to stop eventually, but you just don't know when, and you have no choice but to stay still within the vise. Your life is bidirectional, but there's a screw on either end, and you have no control on the tightness setting.
All of this sounds like melodramatic poppycock even to me when I put it on paper, so of course, it's impossible to explain. Maybe simpler is better: this whole thing, it's disgusting.
Supposedly, 1 in every 10 Americans has it. I can't imagine that 10% of the population are chronically depressed. That is a lot of people! Is it a function of the 20th century or of American life? Were morose and poetic people of the past simply clinically depressed?
Anyway. Statistics say it's true. The thing is, trying to explain it to the other 90% is difficult. Normal people also have bad days, sad moods, some even recognize that life is nothing but a constant shit storm. But the shit storm doesn't take over their lives. So, when they ask: Can't you just put this behind you? Or when they say: Don't think about that now. Do something active. Cheer yourself up. You need to talk it out.
Try to explain that no, you can't and it won't help, and also, why not!
It's like a quicksand trap. You feel that your foot has been caught, so you pull it out, but to get out of the quicksand, you need to step with the other foot, and as you do that, it sinks too; then you're in with both feet, up to the knees, and as you kick your feet more, soon you're up to the waist. Eventually, comes a moment when you realize that it is inevitable that you're about to get sucked down so you just allow it. You relax for a second, and then it's already enveloped you, and you're in the dark.
Sometimes, it's like a hole in your chest. It's a hole that some vermin inside you has gnawed into existence laboriously and persistently. It comes on slowly, expanding and expanding until you start to feel it all the time. It itches, but doesn't go away even with the deepest breaths of fresh air.
It's also been like a vise. Or a Chinese finger trap. The more you move, the tighter they crank it. You think, this will have to stop eventually, but you just don't know when, and you have no choice but to stay still within the vise. Your life is bidirectional, but there's a screw on either end, and you have no control on the tightness setting.
All of this sounds like melodramatic poppycock even to me when I put it on paper, so of course, it's impossible to explain. Maybe simpler is better: this whole thing, it's disgusting.
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