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i could be living the best and happiest of lives, if only i were not a fool!
in eleventh grade, i had an english teacher who was about twenty-two and right out of college. poor thing, she had no idea what to do with us. not that we helped much. anyway, one of the books she assigned us was goethe's the sorrows of young werther, which, oddly enough, made quite an impression on me. that is, two bits of it did. the first is the above, one of my favorite quotes of all time. but the important one at the moment is werther's discussion with his friend albert about illness:
even the german romantics knew that for real depression, of the long-lasting, screw-up-your-life variety, you need medical help. the medical help can't always fix it and make it better, of course, but they can't always do that for observable physical problems either. but there's no more good reason to think a person can combat depression on her own than there is to think she can remove her own ruptured appendix.
the depressive episode i had a month or so ago was the mental-health equivalent of a wee sniffle. but those of you who have bigger, more chronic issues than that? dude, if it were a bronchial cough you couldn't shake, you'd go to the doctor, right?
right?
"The question ... is, not whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever."
...
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.
...
She sees nothing of the wide world before her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would have been alive now.'"
even the german romantics knew that for real depression, of the long-lasting, screw-up-your-life variety, you need medical help. the medical help can't always fix it and make it better, of course, but they can't always do that for observable physical problems either. but there's no more good reason to think a person can combat depression on her own than there is to think she can remove her own ruptured appendix.
the depressive episode i had a month or so ago was the mental-health equivalent of a wee sniffle. but those of you who have bigger, more chronic issues than that? dude, if it were a bronchial cough you couldn't shake, you'd go to the doctor, right?
right?