Depression sneaks up, its stealth apparent only long after its origins.
And one day, though “This isn’t like me!” you’ll lament, nothing seems to have a point. Terminally blocked at work, certain to win more criticism than credit, as that’s just how people think. Relationships are only possible with baggage, primarily women more afraid their coupling WILL work than not, running whenever things look good. Work and chores pile up, far more to do than humanly possible, and it all just gets worse. And then one day, your doctor wonders if you need some pharmacological help.
“April is the cruelest month,” T.S. Eliot tells us at the start of “The Wasteland,” breeding lilacs and tulips out of the dead ground, mixing memory and desire. That "stony rubbish," bleak and desolate as it may be, took time to prepare. How did it happen? When did it start?
“Hurry up please, it’s time.”