The Luxury Of Depression

I am depressive. Right now, I'm doing pretty well. In the past, not so much. I have been suicidal, spent thousands of dollars on therapy, taken anti-depressants and stopped taking anti-depressants, told everyone to kiss my ass, hid in my cocoon, came out of my cocoon, and live to tell the tale. It's not a pretty picture. If you've never been there you can't understand it. If you have, it's all too real. And all very bad.

I am also a Deep Thinker. I'm sure my Deep Thinking has contributed to my depression. I do my best to avoid Deep Thinking now, like I try to avoid The News, because it all makes me want to shoot myself.

I used to think that everyone Thought Deeply like I did. When I shared my Deep Thoughts, people looked at me like I had three heads. I've learned that not everyone is a Deep Thinker like me. And when you say to someone, after you've done as much Deep Thinking as I have, "I just want to die," people freak out and want to either a) run away as fast as possible, or b) want to call the authorities or your mother, whomever is closer.

But when you have knowledge of things like this, and this, and this, it's just not that hard to be depressed. (I didn't even have to look that far to find this depressing News. And, it's just the tip of the iceberg.)

But then you realize, at least you're not like this , or this , or this, or, sadly, this.

The mere fact that I live in the United States makes me one of the richest people in the world.

Through all of my Deep Thinking, and reading and hearing of so much News, I've discovered that I am just a big fucking pussy who has the luxury of being depressed.