Have been thinking a lot recently about gaslighting and depression.
What are the things that keep us alive? I spoke to two writers in the passing month on Skype, and both of them said they had it. I watch Seinfeld on Netflix, and he says that he has it. And the only way to keep functioning was exercise and perhaps, having a purpose.
What I also don’t really get is the fact that we are so keen on hiding this away from ourselves. As if depression was a kind of ‘maybe I’ll get it’ because it ran through my family.
I remember my mother sitting with me when I was a child, maybe a month or two or six after I moved to the U.K.. She had bought me some kind of fluffy toy (she was always placating me with toys, ice cream that I didn’t want) and she sat alone on the bench, being mentally ill. That’s really the only way I can describe it.
And my grandma, if you told her you had depression, she would tell you to get over it.