Prozac Nation

It took me nearly a month to get my hands on the book.
I first learn about it from Joel. Because it dealt with depression, because it seemed dark and depressing, I thought I should give it a read.
Stray away from those mainstream books that I always read, and give this one a shot.
Sometime later, I saw it again on some bestseller's list (I can't remember which), and that intensified my search.

Big mistake to read the book.
Not that the recommendation is not a good one. It's a good read.
I haven't yet finish. But already I cannot bear to continue.

It took only the first chapter..
I felt surreally drawn to the author. (It's apparently a memoir). But I am not sure if it's like Memoirs of a Geisha type, just another tale by the author.
I doubt it is, because I found it under Psychology.
Thing is, I don't want to find out if its real or not.
Because I take it as it is..

The good part of it?
I realise I am not alone in my feelings.
The bad?
I relate to a girl suffering from major depression, who needs therapy and drugs.
The really really bad part?
There are really no Happy Pills.

When the she writer mentioned about how she keeps telling others, she can't do anything about it, and its not like a choice.
I totally understand
How the ones I love always tell me, its all up to you, it's a choice.. you can choose to be happy if you want.
But nobody fucking gets it.
Who doesn't want to be happy. Who doesn't want to be the poster sunshine girl? Who doesn't want to glow and radiate with happiness?
Every fucking human being on Earth wants it.
Every fucking girl wants to be happy.
I want to be fucking happy too ok.
But don't you see? I really can't.
It is not a choice. It feels almost like a perogative for me to be going through the swings, to cry non stop not knowing how to stop. To feel those tears streaming down even though I say I want to be happy.
I can't fucking stop crying my eyes out.
Don't tell me it's a choice.
Please, that just so insults me.

So there goes my hopes of popping depression away.

Admist all these,
I was asked just now.
Do you know who you are?

I lost myself.
I truly lost myself.
I don't know who I am anymore.
The scary thing is, I am starting to see myself as a 3rd entity. Though not entirely there yet, but I am drifiting towards it.
I am not, because I am afraid. If I were to start seeing myself as someone else. Or the person that I had been as someone else.
Then that, I think is the absolute diagnosis that I am going nuts.

It hurts me most.
When I people think I am crazy.
Because during my last reality check, I thought so too.
Just that I would have rather me being the only one who thought so.
I'd rather no one else confered with me.

I use to think, that depression was just a mild condition.
Like fatigue, you'd get over it, once the depressing situation is cleared, or that time started passing on.
I never fully understood or empathize with those that underwent depression.
I thought (and yes I am ashamed for this thought), that those who say they are clinically depressed are just saying it, so they have a legitimate excuse to cry their eyes out and wail to their heart's content.
But lately, I gain perspective on those undergoing depression.
It struck me hard, when I realise, I empathize with them now.

I stopped reading.
Because I am afraid.
The more I read, the more I slip into it, and start convincing myself I am clinically depressed, need to seek therapy and get help.
I am convinced I can snap out of this myself.
As much as it is killing me. I just cannot go out and embrace this.
I cannot and will not acknowledge that perhaps I do have depression and need therapy, or someone to talk to.

Nobody understands how I feel.
You can, to a certain extent relate to it. But you cannot fully and thoroughly understand.
Everyone has different capacity to feel and different ability to react.
You can feel the same, but react differently.
You can feel different but react the same.
It's not a fixed a+b gives you c thing.
You can tell me you understand what I am going through right now, but don't tell me that it is a choice, and I can be happy if I wanted.
It is not.
Really. I cannot yet explain the importance of this.
But it really is not a choice.

Are you wondering yet?
So what is really wrong with me, what is making me so depressed?
What really is the cause?

Nobody loves me enough.