Charles B. Snoad

Excuse me while I get this nonsense out of my system:

My depression is a defense mechanism protecting me from hazards and hardships.

My depression gives me an edge, adds shape to an otherwise flat existence.

My depression somehow makes me a better poet because it deals in suffering.

My depression adds content, purpose and routine to my life as I progress through treatment.

My depression serves as a substitute for a traditional spiritual quest.

My depression is a mask for my underlying narcissism and feelings of entitlement.

My depression is a safe place to hide my guilt.

My depression is a scapegoat for my imperfections and shortcomings.

My depression is a learned response instilled at an early age by those who love me.

My depression is an act of aggression against a hostile, unforgiving world.

My depression makes me a statistic, an object for doctors, lawyers and the government to study.

My depression gets me attention.

My depression gives me a sense of accomplishment when I think I’ve overcome it.

My depression is a preexisting condition.

My depression gives me something to write about on the Internet.