Depression, oh joy

I hate taking painkillers.  Always have.  Seems like cheating. 

And that’s probably why I’ve never been into taking them.  Conveniently, every opioid I’ve ever tried – and that’s most of them – makes me throw up.  So no guilt for not doing a Gregory House and dancing the tango with the poppy dust while holding down a regular nine-to-five.  It’s not to say I haven’t dabbled with them on occasion. 

I’ve dabbled with antidepressants on rare occasion too.  Pharmaceuticals once (bad), St John’s wort a few times (tolerable for short periods) and various subtle tinkerings with neurotransmitters via amino acid supplements and the like, the complexities of which overwhelm me, but seem to thrill my naturopath (apparently ineffective). 

All in all though, I suspect that as with pain, all the neurochemical explanations for my depression probably only describe the phenomenon, and don’t touch it’s root causes at all.  Which is why, since my naturopath took me off the St Johns wort last visit (which was working), and put me onto something that obviously isn’t, I haven’t seriously considered making a fuss about it. 

Do you think it could be boredom?  A lust for experience – the desire to feel something – that sinks happily into sadomasochistic enjoyment of its own painfully disordered brain chemistry?  Takes the concept of mental masturbation to new heights, doesn’t it? 

A prim and responsible part of me sulks in the corner, nagging me as usual to go pay the channel to bring Michael in and end three years of procrastination by finally asking what it was I came here to do.  It would seem simple enough… sensible enough.  And why haven’t I done it yet?  Do I even expect to get an answer specific enough to help much?  Not really. 

Terror.  Terror each time I even think of doing it, that’s why.  I think I’m afraid of anything that might bring to an end my hiding from the world, my cosy and protected hermit life.