Depression is not sadness. Depression is madness. One is not depressed because something bad is happening in ones life. One is depressed in spite of the fact that lovely things may be happening. My most severe depressions have been while I was happily married, starring on Broadway, making pots of money, with all of my family alive and well. For me, at least, there is no connection to circumstances. Here is Virginia Woolfs suicide letter. It explains, as well as anything can, the feeling of battling a force much stronger than yourself. The way it defeats you and eats away at your resolve. The way it lies to you. Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we cant go through another of those terrible times. And I shant recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I cant concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I dont think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I cant fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I cant even write this properly. I cant read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I cant go on spoiling your life any longer. I dont think two people could have been happier than we have been.
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 22:02:57 +0000
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