This Is Not A
Up And Down, In And Out
Last Friday, I was diagnosed as having depression.
(I was tempted to spell it with a capital 'D', but decided that would look far too self-important)
The symptoms could possibly be deduced by the more perspicacious reader from the content of the previous post, although even my good chum Alex - having been provided with an earlier draft of that piece, and being himself no stranger to such feelings - still hasn't deconstructed it to his satisfaction after a fortnight.
I'm not going public about this in order to elicit pity or sympathy. For one thing, such an attempt would be shameless grandstanding of the "look at me, I'm significant!" type; but more importantly, whatever state of Möbius mindscape I've got myself into is my responsibility alone.
It's simply that I don't see any reason why I should hide it. This is potentially perilous in a society where psychiatric ill-health is seen as a subject for shame, guilt or simple avoidance; but - as I said last time - in order to slay the Beast, one has to identify it and name it.
I will enter Cognitive Behaviour Therapy soon. I may tell you about it - as much as I can with proper respect for my own privacy and for the delicacy of your stomachs.