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I’ve been called dysthymia, bipolar, majorly depressed, and a sufferer of generalized anxiety disorder. I’ve been told I have a learning disorder, a sleeping disorder, social anxiety, an addictive/obsessive/compulsive personality. I’ve been called borderline manic, sadistic, masochistic, even narcissistic, and I used to be hypoglycemic.
I don’t know what all of this means. It’s all just words. I don’t really care anymore, and that’s dangerous.
They wanted to give me shock treatments when I was twenty-four. They wanted to electrocute my brain to relieve my depression. I said no. If they had tagged the right label on my chart, they could have forced me. Labels do scare me much. They don’t mean anything; they still matter. That fucking sucks.
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Oh my not this again. I told you Carrie Fisher (yes gold bikini and Jabba the Hutt Carrie Fisher) had the electroshock and she’s fine. Granted she has lost much of her memory but on the bright side she remembers every line from Star Wars. Good. That’s what we like from her, that and Postcards from the Edge.
Start caring again, God. As soon as you stop caring about your writing it goes to shit, and really if there is anything you’re not it’s shit. Okay enough of this.
These are all silly labels the silly doctors like to give to silly people who believe there’s something wrong with them. As far as I know you can only catch two illnesses Cancer and HIV. Oh and The Klap…and the rest of those STD’s. But that’s it. How do you catch depression anyway? Does someone sneeze on you when they’re in a bad mood?
It’s just a ride and we can change it any time we want. It’s only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money, a choice, right now, between fear and love.
The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your door, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love instead see all of us as one.