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Ok La, time to earn all those follows….

So I’ve been avoiding blogging for a number of weeks because of all the dark, twisty things happening in my head (and by association my life) lest they leak out onto my writing and potentially terrify the unsuspecting masses (I use ‘masses’ with no small sense of irony here) reading my little posts. But then I thought, “Ah screw it. Who doesn’t enjoy a touch of the macabre pasted across a lightly shining computer screen?”.

If you answered, “Me!” to that (technically) rhetorical question there, then you might want to avert your baby blues (or browns) at this stage and turn your attention to more wholesome things, like big-busted Asian porn or something.

Today’s dark and twisty involves coming to terms with my own glaring deficiency. Everyone talks about depression the way they would talk about a nasty bug doing the rounds. “Did you hear? Sarah’s got depression!”. “Oh no, don’t tell me she’s got it too? Seems everyone’s coming down with it these days…”. At least, that’s the way it seems to me. I can’t walk five steps without bumping into some chronically depressed, anxiety-laden misfit (Oh wait, that’s just my reflection in the mirror). And that kind of prevalence definitely detracts from depression’s rep, you know. It’s suddenly not so serious, not so tragic, because everyone’s got it.

I’m here to spread the gospel and you know what, that’s utter BS.

But even more serious/tragic/pathetic is when you need to face up to your own chemical inadequacies and pop some pills just so that you can, you know, function. Suddenly life looms ahead of you like that endless stretch of hallway in a nightmare. You know the door’s there somewhere ahead of you but angels-be-damned if you can spot the bloody thing. And lining the walls of this hell-way are frames filled with faces showing every conceivable reaction on the spectrum: barely-concealed disdain, bitter contempt and, worst of all, heart-searing pity…

My therapist says I should look at this as if it were some other disease, like diabetes. No one blames the old guy for taking insulin shots, so why should I be blamed for taking pretty little pills to boost my seratonin and dopamine levels? Except no one gives Gramps that look. You know the one where they’re thinking to themselves, “Whiny brat, you’re just pretending because you’re too weak and spoilt to deal with the real world…” And if it so happens that most of the faces wearing that look happen to be mine, well…Freud would have a field-day.

And now, avid and enthralled reader (snort, cough, choke), feel free to return to your more fulfilling pasttime of whatever you were doing before this, with the resolute knowledge that you depart these words none the wiser nor in any way altered or enriched….or do you?

La Labouche signing off…

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