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A while back, I posted this with the intention of writing down my experience later that day. And I didn't. And the most compelling reason I have is that that no one wants to write about this shit, and no one wants to read about it. Which isn't strictly true, of course - just look at Brooke Shields.

I admire the hell out of her for having the courage to write - and publish - Down Came the Rain, and I have my own copy...but I can't bring myself to actually read it. It sounds melodramatic, maybe, but reliving the shit is hard. While reading Shields's book would be interesting in an academic, analytical sort of way, I just can't bring myself to do it. Of course, I can't bring myself to get rid of the book either.

I think I've always been somewhat depressed, my earliest happy moments fleeting and often bittersweet. I think the first time I really knew what it was to feel happy was when I went on antidepressant medication. Not high-happy - that I could and did get from alcohol as an adolescent - but clear-happy, or maybe just confident, or content. Not-uncomfortable. Comfortable. Able. Not all the time, but sometimes.

Anyway, after Daniel was born I had my first diagnosed "major depressive episode," so that's what I'm going to try to describe here. cut for length, and because no one wants to read this shit. ;-) )

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falcongrrl

July 2017

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