Depression is a funny thing. Funny as in strange, unfathomable. There’s a desperate need for human connection and comfort, often combined with abusive behavior and a pushing away of those who are the closest. Medication, even when it’s by doctor’s orders and well-intentioned, seems almost random, as in “let’s see if this works.” How can one explain what it’s like to witness this happening to someone you care about and be helpless to do anything about it? Frustrating, harrowing, soul-destroying. I’m not talking about the gifted singer-songwriter Elliott Smith right now… I’m talking about my mom. A few days spent in a psychiatric ward, riding out manic-depressive pendulum swings brought on by incorrect medication levels, gave me kind of a unique perspective to discuss a beautiful spirit taken from us far too soon.
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