Mental illness is like the worst pet ever. You can’t house train it. It will crap everywhere. You cannot make it love you. It will live off of you, but it will also attack you when you least expect it. It will destroy the things you love.

And unlike a pet, you can’t put this fucker down. You can’t snap it’s neck and bury it in the back yard. You have to try to sedate it with drugs or wear it out with exercise or fix it with a million half hearted cures, none of which accomplish what you really want, which is getting the damned animal out of your house.

Vincent knows what I'm talking about

Vincent knows what I’m talking about

Depression is a stone-cold bitch.

It’s October, which means my depression is doing its happy dance. Shorter days and colder weather feed it and it grows. If my efforts to control it don’t grow in proportion, then I can expect to come home and find the whole place trashed. I have a SAD lamp and a treadmill and some drugs and vitamins and I use all of these to try to lull depression, so I can make it thorough the Canadian winter.

Depression really is a stone-cold bitch.

That is all.


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