Made in Richmond

A few days after I began the Prozac, I woke up one morning, and I felt fine.

Here’s the thing: up until that day, I had never felt fine. Not ever. I didn’t know what “fine” was. I thought I did; I thought there were periods when I thought I was doing quite well. I thought the Prozac was treating a relatively recent development in my emotional state. And then I woke up that day, and I realized that this was normal, and this was how I was supposed to feel all the time. And it was utterly, utterly new to me.

It was as if I had spent my entire life hearing a constant thrumming sound in the background, a percussive rhythm that became part of the fabric of my life. And then I woke up to silence, and I had no idea what silence was. And I could think, without all that noise.

Yes. That.

For me, those words perfectly articulate the difference I’m currently experiencing between treating depression and not treating depression. It might not be the same for others facing this condition/disease/struggle/whatever you want to call it, but I think it gives good insight — especially for friends and family who are trying understand what their loved one is going through.

Read the whole post here. And then read all of Alice’s posts because she’s fantastic.

(Side note: I know I have not done this month’s letter to JR. First I was left alone with The Child for 4 days/3 nights and then pizza tried to kill me. I’ll explain later.)