If you say youre depressed, people are quick to dispense wise on how to deal with it. Martha Mills decided to take them literally, and try them out for herself
So, it turns out Im getting better at depression. That isnt to mention Ive stopped suffering it, or that it is any less debilitating when it sneaks up after a two-year hiatus and pile-drives me into a blister agony of mental carpet ignites topped with a patronising tousle of the bed-hair, like a nostalgic school bully. No, whats better about me is spotting it and moving quicker through the self-blame technique of diagnosis.
We all have down days, and thats what you hope these are. Merely they stopped being a day or two of feeling blue that can be whiled away with the distraction of a conspiratorial sofa and questionable DVD collection, and have merged into weeks since you were last able to feel anything but disappointment on waking up, and the choice between showering or only reeking like a tramps undercarriage has run beyond conflict into pure resignation.
Being specially practised at denial, I decided that I, a mere mortal with a solid history of depressive episodes since childhood, could fake my way out of this oncoming tsunami of debilitating black cloud utilizing the advice that people who have never experienced depression trot out an experiment that could surely only succeed[ sidelong glance to camera ]. I would improve my diet and exercising, force myself to take up hobbies, I would soldier on until it passed and thrust myself( reluctantly) into social situations. I even tried appearing on the bright side but it turned out to just be glare on my TV.
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