My friends tell me that I should really write more. They tell me that I’m a born writer. I’ve always hated them for it. I’ve always prided myself on being considered inveterate, impenetrable. I don’t like being nailed without my consent. But there it’s been: You are a writer. F—K them. Yet, they are a steadfast and clever bunch (After all, what other sort would I cultivate?) and only periodically suggest “I really should write some of this down.” They usually let long periods of time go by before saying something for fear I might say, “If you’re so goddamned bored with me, why don’t you just say so?” or some other rude statement. And so this has been.

The other day I picked up a copy of The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon (It is presumptuously subtitled: The Atlas of Depression). I bought this at Borders with bf and I can tell you that the purchase was a real triumph of will. Normally, I purchase three books and add them to the shelves of Those I Feel Ashamed For Buying and Not Reading. In this case, I picked up a couple of books, put them in bf’s basket, came back later, took them out, put one back in, cycled around, picked up a few more, put them in the basket, walked away, took them all out, and lastly put Solomon in. I’m sure bf had certain questions of sanity. I put the excuse of “It’s for our friend…” on my tongue in case of a quizzical look. None was expressed. Immediately, I became ambivalent about the purchase.

So, I have been reading it carefully. In fact, I’ve only made it through the 38 pages of the first chapter which exhibits Solomon’s meditations on depression and the world’s concept of it. I know that better books are cleverly designed traps wherein you start arguing with the author immediately. “Depression is the flaw in love.” See that? I know that if I become so argumentative somebody has hit a nerve. Apparently Solomon hit my tap root. The question is simple: Am I depressed? In comparison to my friends, absolutely not. I have had episodes of depression. They were big, heavy. They passed. But depression–its taxonomies and definitions–is seductive and subtle. As Solomon analogizes, our psyches are like trees, overgrown by the vines of depression to the point that our psyches have been fundamentally changed and do not exist properly without those vines. Likewise, even if we cut the vines away, once exposed to depression our personalities usually bear some mark and/or change that we are likely to ignore or deny. Aren’t we all then depressed? Do I dare refute? What are the losses in accepting that attribution? I am not certain that Solomon would say that depression is ubiquitous for everyone in the world. But I believe he would agree that depression is now a normal consequence of living. Of course, this depressing analysis becomes a little self-fulfilling.

More to say, but tired….

For Later Consideration:
- Confessions of a Depressive, or Isn’t That Redundant in a Blog?
- Days and Nights in Azeroth, or The Solace is Numbness
- Better Living through On-Line Gaming
- Sex with Friends (Male)
- WWYTS (What Would Your Therapist Say?)
- I Love Donnie Darko! I Love Hoodies! Coincidence?
- The Enemy of Perfection is “Good Enough”, Yet We Know That Perfection Is Whoring With Depression…