What is “depression” anyhow? Is it really real? It most certainly feels real in the midst of it and yet our feelings are not our facts, or so I’m told. And why is “depression” seemingly destined to plague writers, artists and scientists? Is this a special designation that would otherwise be honorable if we didn’t, as a society, judge it different? If society was built around the eccentricities of artistic and scientific madness, wouldn’t that then be the norm and we might perceive the rest of the world as walking zombies, maniacs engaging in pointless activity, autistic, obsessive-compulsive, lepers or a bunch of heathens??? And in that sense, the word “depress-ion” hardly seems apropos. It seems “alive-sion” might be better suited.
Is “depression” only perceived as “depression” because of how it looks from the outside? Would it still be called “depression” if you could see it from the inside? And for the one who is “feeling” it from the inside, does it feel “depress”ing because it is a battleground between calling and purpose and desire vs. expectation, obligation and responsibility? And then further compounded by the act of depressing the former in the interest of the latter?