Last night my sister asked me if I’d ever been depressed. It wasn’t a direct question, but rather one of those topics that came up from a random side conversation that had strayed sooo far off track that neither one of us knew where it had started. I am really close to my sister, I still live with her and I’m 21, so I’d say were closer than most. And yet…she had no idea that I had been depressed. If you Google writers and depression then you will see that most famous writers have struggled with depression at some point. Whether it’s a chemical difference in our brains, or if it’s the let down that we have to face after being in our own paradise while writing and coming back to the harsh reality of life, I’m not sure. Either way, writers are far most likely to be depressed than the average human. My father was a councilor who specialized in mental disorders so to him, I was broken and needed to be fixed. Therapy was hardly what I would consider an enchanting experience. I knew all their tricks having learned them from my father, so it was like trying to perform magic on a magician, it simply doesn’t work. One therapist was at a complete loss when he asked me how I handled my anxiety and I told him I was already doing the exercises that I knew he was about to suggest.
All talking about my problems did was make me think of them even more (I have severe OCD) and it would make my depression even worse especially considering I couldn’t really identify what was wrong with me. Then one day I decided there was nothing WRONG with me. I was depressed, and that was okay. That’s who I was, no one could change who I was. I have since found OCD meds that also make me able to be depressed without obsessing about it, so I am content with who I am. I’m not a super happy-go-lucky person who views the world as a beautiful rainbow. My writing would be utterly boring if I was. I can see people for who they really are including myself and while some people may view this as ‘mental’…well I would have to say I am happy being mental then!