I have had "mild depression" for a while. This is clinical mild depression. And I don't know if you have ever been clinically depressed; heck, even if you know how it feels. Not saying "nah nah nah, I am a headcase and you are not." Really, that is not the point. But people who are depressed are a little like Eeyore. And I don't mean that they have a nail in their butt holding their tail on, or they are several shades of purple. Again, not the point. Here, some guys are wondering if there is a sexual innuendo here – nailing an animal in the butt. Wow, I never thought of that before. Bad thought. Bad thought.
Not that I am an expert as far as psychology goes, but I do remember seeing an article in the "letter to the editors" part of a psychology journal (I don't read the journals, but I found this on the web a few years ago). In it, psychologists analyzed the AA Milne characters and gave them psychological work-ups. Really funny. And, no, I could not find it when writing this – and I tried, good readers. Again, off point.
But today, folks, I am talking about depression, a not-so-funny subject. I guess that's why they don't call it something more up-beat, like "Pollyanna syndrome".
I actually was treated for depression with drugs (Fluoxetine) at first. My Mom once asked if I was on Prozac, and I said, "No, but I am taking Fluoxetine, whatever the heck that is." You see, Prozac is a brand name, and I was on a generic version of it. One thing I can be thankful to my HMO for; giving me an out with my Mom!
But you know, I don't want drugs to help me with my moods, so I stopped using Fluoxetine and started drinking tequila. Tequila is not a drug, and it is natural (I guess tequila is good for everyone but the unfortunate worm). Tequila is natural, I think. Part of my homeopathic outlook on life.
Before someone starts bitching about me making fun of those using psychotropic drugs, Fluoxetine was not for me. I think I explained it once this way: when I was on the drug, nothing seemed to bother me. I could have some hack off my left arm, and there I am bleeding all over the place, probably my best blouse getting cut, and I just wonder how I am going to mop up the blood with one hand. Not worried about mopping it up, but wondering about it, as if it is an interesting notion. I was so flat, and I wanted to stop taking it. And tapering off the drug was so hard – oh, I blew up at people for no damn reason. Sort of like PMS-extra. And I was on a really low dose.
And now that I have started writing this, I am starting to wonder what the point of the post may be. Think-think-think. How do I save this freakin' post? Picture me, sitting on the ground, my index finger pounding my forehead, saying "Think. Think. Think."
Anyway, afterwards, after the tequila and the shopping sprees, I was not doing any better. I was eating better and exercising. By the way, I think "the runner's high" is crap. Sorry, VX, but I did not really get how running gives you a high. You have to buy really expensive bras, you nearly get killed by cars driven by people eating McDonalds food at the wheel, and your shoes wear out too darned fast. Personally, I would rather be on a treadmill, watching CNN, or that guy pumping iron and flexing for the rest of us (you know the guy; every gym has him).
Anyway, for whatever reason, my depression seems to have lifted. I think the exercise has something to do with it. And the iPod vibrator (a joke). It is like the clouds have parted and let the sun inside of my life again. Lisa mentioned her depression recently; the loss of a loved one may have had something to do with hers. Now I am not saying she is on Prozac or tequila, but she has been "blue." As apposed to Eeyore purple. Lots of bloggers have been feeling that way.
I have just decided not to be an Eeyore, strange as that sounds. I did not decide to become depressed, and even after several people said something about it, I just figured they were idiots. Well, they may be idiots, but I was depressed too (not mutually exhaustive events, or is that mutually exclusive events?). I am such an idiot. Now I could not will myself out of depression, but now that things seem better, I have decided to eat right, exercise and have lots of hot, sweaty sex.
Let me leave you with the opening lines of Winnie-The-Pooh by A. A. Milne:
Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it.
For many of us with mild depression, we don't really know how we got to where we are, and now that we are here, these feelings seem just a part of living our lives. The feeling of hopelessness is part of who we are, and if we could stop for a moment, perhaps we could think of life the way we were before the depression. But we don't, and if there is not an intervention, until the sky parts in our lives, we don't realize how wonderful the world really is.
Look at Lisa; she masturbated in a car wash the other day. Oh, what a wonderful world this is.
3. My Stories. Yeah, I have a few erotic stories here. I know, they are not all that good, but they were fun to write. Don't read them if this offends you (and they represent less than 1% of the content here). These stories have elements of truth and fantasy, some more true than others. Complain about something that is a bit more substantive if you must complain. I have lots of faults.
