Filed under: Book reviews | Tags: Americana, books, Crime, cults, drama, Gillian Flynn, literature, mental health, modern, murder, society, suspense, USA
Libby Day was seven when her mother and two sisters were murdered in their home in an attack dubbed by the press as âThe Satan Sacrifice of Kinnakee, Kansas.â Libby and her then fifteen-year-old brother, Ben, survived, and it was Libbyâs testimony that sent Ben to jail on a life sentence for the monstrous murders.
As a youngster, Libby received a lot of money from strangers for having survived her ordeal (and for being cute). Twenty-five-years later, sheâs broke, and hasnât done anything with her life except grow angrier and more depressed. Then the Kill Club locates her. Theyâre a secret society obsessed with notorious murders, and they want to pump Libby for details because they believe Ben was wrongly convicted and want to find proof that will liberate him. In turn, Libby hopes to make a profit off of her tragic history. For a fee, sheâll reconnect with people associated with that night and her family at that time, and report her findings back to the club. When Libby begins this journey, sheâs convinced her brother is guilty. But as her search takes her from decrepit Missouri strip clubs, to deserted Oklahoma tourist towns, and back to the site of the fatal killings, the inconceivable truth emerges, and Libby finds herself back where she started â running from a murderer.
The novel is a complex character study and an evocative portrait of people on the fringe of society. Told in sporadic flashback, Libby narrates the present-day chapters in first person, while the flashback chapters are told in third-person, describing the actions and perspectives of several key characters on the days leading up to, and on the day that, the family was murdered. Libby is not a particularly likeable protagonist â sheâs bitter, tough, and selfish. Even so, you root for her, and youâre sad about her horrifying childhood. Similarly, Ben isnât particularly appealing â heâs awkward, shiftless, impressionable, and irrational. Like Libby, you feel immense sympathy for him. Each of the characters in the book are compelling, even if theyâre not agreeable, and Flynn expertly weaves their stories together. The narrative is consistently developed, compelling, and absolutely suspenseful throughout (I had to resist reading the last chapters to find out how it ended!). The best aspect of this book, however, is in Flynnâs ability to create a vivid picture or a situation in a phrase or two, giving the reader a believable glimpse into a world we might never see otherwise.
This is an insightful, poignant, and well-written book. Its ability to affect its reader is also impressive. I was troubled for several days after finishing it – I found myself checking on my sleeping child in the night, hugging him more during the day, and double-checking that the front and back doors were locked when I went to bed. Would I read it again? Not for some years. Do I recommend reading it? An emphatic yes!
Filed under: Corona 2020 | Tags: alcoholism, China, Corona virus, Covid-19, depression, Fear, France, illness, Italy, mental health, self isolation, USA
A friend wrote this to me when I responded, simply, to her text about what I was doing in my self isolation, « Drinking in the sun : »
« I take the opinion that if washing your hands with a hydro-alcoholic solution keeps germs away, then filling your body with alcohol will do the same…’Tis a noble sacrifice you are doing for the greater good of la rĂ©publique! »
Indeed. Vive la RĂ©publique! Yes, I’m a regular a dame de la rĂ©sistance when one considers my coping strategies…
(Though I did write a note to both Emmanuel Macron and Ădouard Philippe about what I saw today going in to vote and at the voting station, so that’s something (she tells herself)…).
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, angst, city, depression, health, life, loneliness, marriage, mental health, mid life crisis, rural, sadness, teenager
âThere is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.â
Maya Angelou
A city girl who lives in a village.
A muted erudite.
A smoker who canât smoke.
A drinker who canât drink.
A carnal creature sans sex.
Vivacity rendered torpid.
A bird in a cage of its own making.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: alcohol, anxiety, Children, depression, global affairs, human dynamics, humanity, intellect, liver, Mean Girls, mediocrity, melancholy, mental health, society, stress, Tennessee Williams
Depression is melancholy minus its charms – the animation, the fits. Susan Sontag
My mind has been playing tricks on me all day. I almost convinced myself that my bad liver was a result of my candy intake. Seriously. For a moment, it seemed real. So real, that it almost justified my drinking at 9am. The rest of the day, Iâve been thinking that Iâll try to make it through fifteen more years. Thatâs the goal. Ten to see my son off to university, then five more years to have fun, do what I want, potentially decimate my body. Then, like a cat when its ready to die, Iâll quietly go off somewhere by myself. These morbid thoughts give me comfort. I think, âI can make it through today…â Then, âI can make it through the next year…â Then, âI can make it for ten more…I think…â âThatâs all, thatâs all…â But that âallâ is everything.
Itâs horrible to feel this way. Itâs heavy and dark and bitter and mean and uncomfortable. I want to escape me. Barring that, I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and just pass time. The day, the year, the ten years, the fifteen. However, there are always people around me. My husband would interrupt this. Not because he would be concerned, but because it would annoy him that I was in bed âlolling aboutâ while he was taking care of our child, our house, and âbusiness.â Then, of course, thereâs my son. My precocious, sweet, talkative boy who hums and sings to himself as he skips up the stairs, heads out the door, or plays by himself. He zones in on me like Iâm a beacon whenever heâs home and demands I engage with him. Not in a pushy, aggressive manner, but because he likes me and wants to show me things, talk to me about what he has seen or done, and to hear what I have to say about it. Heâs still cuddly, even as I can see the man that he will become, and heâs way too big for me to lift up. I try to engage with him. To pay attention to what heâs saying. I try to put a smile on my face. I try to pretend not to be me for him.
Itâs entirely for him that Iâm not drinking and inhaling to my heartâs desire. Or staying in bed all day. Or running away to somewhere else more suited to my real self. Somewhere dirty, large, and anonymous. Heâs the reason I stay. Heâs the reason I try at all. Heâs the reason I will make myself go to the grocery store to get food, even as I absolutely dread the inevitable prospect of running into someone I know. Heâs also the reason that we have any semblance of a social life. As an only child, or a âuniqueâ as the French say, he wants playmates. As a naturally curious and social boy, he wants company and activity around him. As heâs still very young, he canât arrange them or go by himself, and his father is unconcerned with having a social life, happy, instead, to be a homebody. So, I must arrange âplay datesâ and social plans. Then, I must stay for a âhello,â and a âhow are you?â and sometimes a cup or glass of something to be friendly. However, I find these interactions very hard. I feel as though I am perpetually masquerading as a ânormalâ person, and consequently, am such a fraud. I donât know how to have small talk when Iâm sober, and I know people donât want me to launch into âseriousâ talk, which is a âdowner.â Having to interact with adults and children alike is painful and anxiety provoking for me. And now thereâs no reprieve from the stress of it all.
Moreover, âthe slings and arrowsâ of children and their parentsâ politics are very hard for me to observe, digest, and remain calm about. âCookie cutterâ type kids and their parents are popular. Theyâre confident about asserting themselves. The kids spot the âAchilles heelâ of any child and exploit it cruelly. The other kids gravitate to these types. Prompting me to wonder if there isnât some truth to the idea that people, in general, do like dictators â someone to tell them what to do and how to be. Tennessee Williams notes in âNight of the Iguanaâ that humans are the only creatures that wonât do anything to get out of a trap, such as bite off a foot or an arm. The kids âfisty cuffsâ are generally all forgotten relatively quickly, but itâs terrible to watch when you consider that these human propensities begin early. Ugh, and the little clusters of cliques, with those who are the âhenchmenâ to the popular kids often being the meanest. Girls seem to be the worst. Or the best, depending on how you look at it. I think of the film âMean Girlsâ frequently. Even among the hierarchies of adults. I hate observing these dynamics. It âwinds me up.â It makes me feel like Iâm in grade school or high school all over again. I hated those years. I felt like a captive.
I keep looking for justice and signs of human thoughtfulness: to notice the person who picks up after himself when leaving the cinema. Or notice the car that uses only one parking space. Or notice the person who lets someone in front of them in the line at the grocery âcause they only have three items and the other person a trolley full of goods. Or see âthe chancerâ get fired summarily. But itâs so hard to do when I feel so fucking bad. And, it often makes things worse âcause I donât see these things everyday and then Iâm angry. Then, like the masochist I am, I sling abuse at myself for being âso negative.â I tell myself that itâs MY fault that I see the âbadâ things about people in the world! Iâm sending out that âenergyâ and itâs causing a reverb by bringing negativity to me!â âIf I could only change my perspective then it would all be fine. All would be different.â âItâs how I see things thatâs the problem.â âItâs me. I suck. Iâm horrible, beastly, angry, critical, and judgmental.â âI should relax and not think âtooâ much.â Problem is, the only way I donât think too much is to ingest a mind-altering substance. If Iâm to make it another fifteen years, I canât. Itâs already âdiceyâ that Iâll make it that far with what Iâve already done to myself.
And thatâs when I want to spend my day in bed. Itâs then that I see little point in venturing out into the world. Itâs then that I return to the idea that Iâve had a good run and Iâm eager to be done with it. Iâm tired of watching imposters get ahead. Iâm tired of bullies dominating society â both on a micro and macro level. Of mediocrity reigning. Of the rise of pride in ignorance and the consequent disdain of intellect. Of no one really giving a shit about anything. Iâm tired of it all. Iâm tired of me.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, alcohol, British, comedy, depression, drama, Eddie Marsan, human behavior, humor, humour, John Hannah, mental health, Pete Jackson, Radio 4, radio play, substance, Sue Johnston
We are taught to consume. And that’s what we do. But if we realized that there really is no reason to consume, that it’s just a mind set, that it’s just an addiction, then we wouldn’t be out there stepping on people’s hands climbing the corporate ladder of success. River Phoenix
In my opinion, the best humor has a tragic core. And, what better source for dark and amusing material than addiction? Think of Carrie Fisher with her book (then film) Postcards from the Edge. Or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Mall Rats, or Get Him to the Greek.
Addiction forms the setting for Radio 4âs fantastic six-part series Love in Recovery. Itâs such a funny and interesting radio play that after a friend sent me a link to one show, I plundered the BBC I Player back catalogue. I have both laughed and cried on occasion while listening. Itâs sharp and fresh, even as the story of immoderation in alcohol is age-old.
There are lines throughout that I have pondered after each of the 15-minute vignettes, such as, âThe hardest thing in the world is just getting throughâŠâ Or, âI waited to feel betterâŠit never came.â Or, âThere is no cure. You will never be fixed. Itâs horrible. But itâs just the way it is.â These motifs speak to me. The illogical sense of complete failure, disappointment, and a life full of more regrets than triumphs are familiar. That unhappiness, insecurity, and the sense that Iâm not what I might have been had I been someone else (if that makes any sense to a rational person) is the albatross Iâll carry forever. That drugs and alcohol blissfully stop my brain from thinking too much. The characters in Love in Recovery feel much the same way. It rings âtrueâ to me. And it should. The writer, Pete Jackson, has an interesting backstory, which provides the lynchpin for the radio playâs authenticity.
Amidst the distress and pain is much humor. There is the subtle (sic) nod to the great British âartâ of âgrumbling,â as well as slang, dialects, and cultural references that contribute to a sense of the everyday and the âeveryman.â Like Andy, for example, the needy group leader, whoâs constantly offering cookies (biscuits) to the participants with the enticement that, âTheyâre from M&S.â And, as is often the case in the best Brits, humor coexists with self-deprecation and sadness. For example, one episode finds Julie (Sue Johnston) giving an unwaveringly powerful portrait of a woman who attempted to find happiness at the bottom of a glass after her husband of 40 years left her: âHe went off with the cleaner, who ironically turned out to be a dirty bitch.â
All the actors are stellar. And, the sentiment resonates. Itâs fundamentally about how even though you feel alone, that you have the worst difficulties, that you are the worst of the worst, youâre not. That even as you have some slim understanding that this vicious voice telling you these horrible things is false, and the facts belie this âself-speech,â there are others who also find life hard. However, by sharing our stories, our difficulties, our successes, our failures and our disappointments, we can help one another take one day at a time. This works for anything, really, whatever the issue. Addiction takes many forms â alcohol, drugs, food, shopping, fornicating, exercise, and work. Or all of the above. Perhaps, as is the case for me, itâs âsimplyâ the compulsion to excess at all times, both âgoodâ and âbadâ. Both substances and through actions. Big happy. Big sad. Big success. Big flop. For me at least, itâs comforting to know that Iâm not alone in my current struggle for moderation. My own floundering objective to be âbalancedâ also seems to reflect modern societyâs own battle with itself, arguably making addiction a universal story. For me, listening to podcasts, reading books, watching films, and looking at paintings isnât just for diversion. They provide insights into the human condition. And through this, greater understanding of the world we live in, as well as ourselves. Itâs comforting to find a sense of propinquity in the world. And, one can find beauty in ugliness, just as there’s humor in the darkness.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, Alps, books, company, conversation, depression, drinking, films, France, Identity, isolation, language, loneliness, mental health, mountains, Perspective, Politics, sea, self, smoking
âMy idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.â Jane Austen
I went to âBook Clubâ this evening. Was loath to go after last night out at two bars with all the drinking, smoking and haphazard talk. Have been âtwitchyâ and irritable all day as a result. My poor family. Self-recrimination âcause Iâd had one drink more than my ration. Which was already really hard, given that we were out for hours. Self-recrimination âcause Iâd been visibly irritated and uncomfortable with the drinking and smoking around me, and thatâs not nice for those out to have a good time. Self-recrimination because I should know better than to put myself in the line of temptation. And yet. I didnât want to get out of bed this morning. Iâve been near-to-tears all day. And, well, âBook Clubâ is normally a large group of women in what is essentially a âbook swap,â* drinking a lot of wine and chattering.
So I went late. And, I went only âcause it was a bonafide friend hosting it at her house and I wanted to support her. I brought a thermos of green tea and ginger to drink and in order to keep my hands busy and to keep me drinking SOMETHING while, ostensibly, everyone else drank copious amounts of wine. But it wasnât like it usually is. For one thing, it was just our host, a dear friend of hers, another American who, while I may not agree with her politics, is an avid reader and I trust her judgment on books, as well as our hostâs twelve-year-old daughter who is also a reader, and who makes short stop-action films. They were finishing dinner when I arrived, and the daughter had made a peach cobbler. They also werenât drinking alcohol, just Perrier, and later, tea, so I didnât feel tempted or preoccupied with others drinking. Best of all? The conversations were dynamic and interesting. We talked about films, and books weâd recently read, and television programs – both in French and English – and we talked about curricula – both French and American â and we talked about travel, and we talked about exercise ‘fads’ sweeping the globe. It was a good evening. Nothing was discussed in too much depth, as I would generally like to do, but, I am, arguably, too serious.  Ultimately, it was an entertaining evening.
What a happy surprise! Thereâs a moral here Iâm sure. Perhaps itâs that I need to only hang out with people who enjoy talking about subjects I also enjoy talking about? Even if that means I am not as social as I generally like to be. There are several people in the valley whose company I find engaging. Perhaps itâs that I canât be in bars? I suppose itâs like a junkie going to a shooting gallery. Certainly, I canât be in them for too long. In my previous homes â Portland, New York, Los Angeles, London – I would have discussed the subjects we discussed this eve, such as literature, film, culture, education (and, ideally, some politics!) every time I met up with friends. However, perhaps in those cities itâs more obvious to find more people and situations in which to do so. I mean, my coterie of friends in each of the aforementioned places were filmmakers, writers, painters, musicians, artists, and conversational skill is highly valued as a source of creativity and collaboration. Moreover, these types of people are generally more expressive. Whereas where I live now, people are outdoorsmen. Mountain people. They like to climb, hike, ski, and maintain their fitness in the outdoors, preferably at altitude. Thatâs their passion and their focus. Not âwrong,â just not me. While I appreciate the mountains, I am claustrophobic in them, preferring the sea always (âHomme libre, toujours tu chĂ©riras la merâ). As a result of both the environment and the communityâs subsequent interests in general, Iâm often self-conscious, frustrated, and isolated here.
More so now that Iâm trying to substantially reduce my drinking, smoking, and drug-taking after 33 years of âcaningâ it. Additionally, the social life Iâve primarily known here is centered on boozy lunches, afternoons, and dinners…at restaurants and barsâŠwith those that flock to and spend a lot of time in them. However, for whatever reason, tonight I made the happy discovery that while the people and opportunities like this evening might be few-and-far between, there ARE, indeed, situations like tonight. Iâve experienced them here before. Evenings in which I will not spend the entire time âclock watching,’ leaning on, or ‘cluckingâ for my âcrutches,â and can, instead, enjoy what I perceive to be good company. Is this a new direction? It could be. It should be. Is it evidence of a whole new me? Perhaps not. But, perhaps, it is a peek at what the future could be like here, for the remaining years I am here, and thatâs a relief from the bleak perspective Iâve been viscerally feeling for the last couple of weeks.
*We donât read the same book and then talk about it like a traditional âBook Clubâ does. Itâs for Anglophone women to have a supply of reading material without having to buy books, which is a great idea in theory.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, alcohol, border collie, dogs, drugs, habits, habituation, life, mental health, pet, pets, smoking, teetotaller
My fashion philosophy is if you’re not covered in dog hair, your life is empty. Elayne Boosler
My beloved dog, a bright Border Collie, is having a hard time adjusting to my rationed cigarettes, alcohol, and consequent change of habits. When I get up in the morning and head downstairs, she greets me at the bottom of the stairs then goes and sits in the kitchen while I make my coffee. Once Iâve poured my coffee, she heads to the back door and waits till I open it in order to go out for a smoke with me. Whenever I head to the kitchen for something she does the same thing. She knows I like something to drink with my cigarettes. So, she gets up from her bed, sits and waits for me to finish in the kitchen, then heads to the back door waiting for me to open it and go outside with her to smoke. Every time I rifle through my purse, she gets up from wherever sheâs lying and goes to the back door and waits for me to exit for a cigarette that I would normally have retrieved from it. After dinner, once weâve cleared the table, she goes to the back door waiting for me to exit, wine in hand, to have my âafter dinnerâ cigarette. When my son has gone to bed and I normally return back downstairs for a phone conversation to the states (time difference), drinks and much smoking, she gets up as soon as I take the phone from the cradle, she stretches, and heads to the back door waiting for me to open it.
I finally âclockedâ her behavior last night when I was clearing the dinner table and began cleaning the dishes. Normally, I would have gone for my after dinner smoke before doing this, and normally she would have gone and stood at the door waiting for me after the clearing of the table. But this time she didnât. She lay on the floor and looked at me. She eyed my every move, but did not get up to go to the back door. Also, I noticed that she has taken to lying at the bottom of the stairs after I go up with my son for bedtime. I havenât gone back down after putting him to bed in recent days for a phone call or anything. I now prefer to go to bed early, like a farmer might, âcause I canât drink and smoke anyway. It makes the day shorter. One week in and she realizes thereâs a new regiment going on (smart dog) but sheâs confused. Maybe a little saddened that our rituals together are changed. Then I realized, âSheâs a creature of habit, of course! And, for five years â her entire life â she has been my companion in the rain, sun, snow, cold, heat for my frequent cigarettes throughout the day and night. Cigarettes that were habitual â with coffee. With the second coffee. Before lunch. After lunch. In the middle of the afternoon with another coffee. With my first cocktail at âcocktail hour.â The subsequent drinks. After dinner. Before bed while on the phone. And now thatâs over. At least I hope it is. âWell, itâs messing with my head, too, my dear doggie. Weâll get on with it together as best we can. Something tells me that youâll break the habit much easier than me.â
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: balance, consumption, greed, humour, life, mental health, money, power, priorities, relaxation, values, waste, work
My husband sent this to me – it made me smile, and it reaffirms my own priorities. I remember something I was told by a European when I first moved here – “Americans live to work, Europeans work to live.” May this remain true (even as I do think the contagion is spreading here…).
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: Children, guns, loss, mental health, NRA, right wing, schools, security, society, Spain, students, teachers, USA, violence
Posted today on Twitter. I think it says it all…
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: alcohol, anger, Christmas, depression, happy, humanity, loneliness, melancholy, mental health, sad, society
âThat’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.â Elizabeth Wurtzel
I love Christmas because it seems to bring out the humane in people. The individualism of the world is dismissed for a moment as people look outside of themselves to be kind and helpful to others. For most of us, itâs a time of loved ones and good food…ceremonies and lights. For many others, however, itâs a time of year when we feel we must pretend to be happy when weâre not. How does one begin to explain depression to a person who doesnât know it first hand? How does one explain it even to oneself? As I consider how to describe it, a barrage of words come to mind: fatigue, panic, sadness, anger, confusion, suspicion, hesitation, reticence, loneliness, regret, fear, isolation, hopelessness, self-hatred, and an interminable longing to simply have it stop. Itâs bleak.
Iâve suffered depression since I was an adolescent. Now, however, I somewhat understand the ways-and-means to avoid a rough bout of it â defined by me as the inability or wish to do anything but to be left alone to sleep, and when thatâs not possible, the desire to achieve an altered state through substances in order to dull my senses and make things tolerable. To avoid these terrible times, I know to do a few things when I can feel itâs becoming hazardous, usually indicated by my having excessively destructive âself speak.â I take a walk outside each day. I write each day. I watch comedies rather than dramas, and read novels that wonât delve into any existential battle or dystopian reality. I sleep more and drink more water. I also avoid certain types of people when possible. For me, I find it too challenging to spend time with people who exacerbate my sense of failure. People who seem happy and say positive things in an upbeat manner all the time. Privately, I find myself feeling that something is even more terrible about me that Iâm miserable whereas obviously itâs possible that such contented people exist. At the same time, I have disdain for these types of people, thinking theyâre simple-minded or, worse, theyâre false. This depresses me more.
Often, there is an internal struggle as I imagine a choice to either avoid depression or succumb to it. Part of me does not want to make it âbetterâ for myself, to do the things I know will help, but, rather, wants to delve into the monstrous abyss of it because I feel I deserve it and Iâm too exhausted to fight. Another part of me thinks itâs utterly foolish to imagine I can escape it anyway. Sometimes I pretend for others that Iâm not feeling as I do in the hope that it will go away if I simply ignore it. I know others prefer this. It never works. I went through a period of AA decades ago. One of the things that the group talked about is how those who suffer depression attempt to diminish their feelings through excessive drinking and/or the taking of drugs. Not only does this not lessen it, they asserted, the feelings of unhappiness become addictive (as do AA meetings!). I still consider this, but I donât agree entirely. Indeed, I agree that unhappiness is a richly complex feeling that becomes habitual. I also think thereâs credence to the idea that your brain creates âpathways,â if you will, to well-used âroadsâ of thinking when in doubt. Certainly a degree of self-absorption plays a role. However, happiness is also a rich and complex concept, with a plethora of words to describe subtleties of the feeling, so by rights, isnât it equally addictive? The societal pursuit of it seems to be. Ultimately, I think that imagining depression is a choice, one that is created and perpetuated by the depressive person, means the onus is on them for how badly they feel. This type of thinking exacerbates the suffering that the depressive is already experiencing. It also doesnât seem fair when itâs likely a matter of wonky chemistry and predisposition. Believing itâs âsimplyâ a choice is akin to the archaic and ignorant idea that depression is a âluxury.â
Luxury is too fun for it to be likened to depression. While I think there are elements of choice in the sense that the depressive can work to inhibit a full onslaught of depression, moving it from the caliber of âhigh fidelityâ to âlow fidelity,â I think itâs a disease that people donât like to think about despite its prevalence. If one had cancer (other than lung cancer) then people would not blame the one who has it. Despite the progress made to understand and consequently reduce the stigma of depression, thereâs still a stigma attached to it. I think itâs because people want those around them to reflect their illusion that life has meaning and is ‘good.â One only has to turn to Instagram or Facebook to see that the appearance of a perfect and happy life is a common objective. Ultimately, however, these are idle ruminations because once the curtain of depression descends, logic and reason do not enter. For me, depression is akin to a bad acid trip: one side of me recognizes that the perceptions and feelings are not ârealâ and that I must simply wait for it to pass. The other side of me feels that my bleak perception of myself and the world, and the âinevitableâ outcomes for my emotions, are very real. Itâs tortuous.
If you love someone that struggles with depression and you would like to support them, I suggest the following: keep a wide berth. Not really. In fact, try to let the depressive know (without being oppressively cloying) through verbal and non verbal actions, that they’re not completely alone and they do matter to someone. But don’t use platitudes, that’s horrible. Try to be honest. When in doubt, humor always helps.
