Why can’t I just stab it?

Happy Halloween, y’all. Here’s my happy couple, in homage to the day.

Back to the blog topic at hand:

Unsurprisingly, I can’t punch depression back. Unlike some other illnesses that make people miserable, docs have yet to find the part of the human you can literally cut out to get rid of the problem. I wish. I’m not much for elective surgery, but I could go for the one that would end depression. I mean, if they figure out you have to sacrifice another sense (sight, etc.), that would make the decision much harder.

Anyway, however advanced our medical systems are, we don’t know where depression lives. I guess it’s everywhere, which might make it stabbable but only in the self-harm sense of the word stab, which takes it off my list of things to do. Being depressed doesn’t mean I don’t want to live. I just don’t want to live like this.

Guess that’s the stigma of mental illness. Maybe it’s Quixotic to wish the diagnosed conditions I have could be tangible. I mostly wish I would just get over having them. There is no equating suffering. Not trying to pretend there is. All the things traumatize us are jerks. Depression, by its very nature, is just not stabbable. And I really want to personally stab it in the eye because it’s mean, miserable, elusive, super-shifty. It’s a jerk. And a soul-sucking mofo.


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