It’s progress that they qualify major depression as a disability on the federal questionnaires, because it sure as hell is one. I dislike having to check that box, but every time I feel the most enormous sense of relief. To be recognized, to have the battle finally acknowledged, even in this tiny way that means nothing except to some statisticians somewhere. It has been a major disability that directly interferes with my ability to thrive.
Speaking of which, I guess I have the hospital job – ugh. Pretty much the definition of hell for an artist with strong empathic tendencies is being trapped in an office with bitchy women and angry people with bad manners. So here I go again, but I’m really thinking about what I want to do for a living, and how I want to spend my time and energy. Maybe I’ll make a list or something, try to be logical about it. In the meantime, perhaps this hell job at the hospital will help me grow in new ways. Please god, just help me not turn into one of those uptight gossipy mean type people.
SOTD (an ode to the W section)
Ways and Means – Snow Patrol
We Are All Made Of Stars – Moby
We Are All On Drugs – Weezer
We Are Family – Sister Sledge
We Care A Lot – Faith No More
We Don’t Need Another Hero – Tina Turner