Even the word is ugly. An ugly word for an ugly condition.
It’s a dirty little secret people like to sweep under the proverbial rug. It’s something that society mocks, something that is real and tangible and altogether far too common.
I’ve known a lot of people, been friends with a lot of people, who have it. I have family members who have it. I am surrounded by it, on a daily basis. I laugh. I have fun. I float through my life, day in and day out, drifting on waves of contentment and pleasure. I am privileged, and I am incredibly lucky for everyone in my life and everything I have. I want for nothing.
I think that everyone can sympathize, to a certain extent. We all have shit, ladies and gentlemen. We all have secrets that we want to stuff in box and pretend don’t exist.
Am I depressed? No.
Do I feel sadness? Yes.
I cannot imagine trying to wade through life with that type of weight bearing down on my shoulders every day.
And furthermore, I cannot imagine someone ever making light of it.
Is this what our society has turned into? Someplace where we aren’t complete until we validate ourselves with the pain of others?
No thank you. If that’s the case, I’ll stay at home with my cats and my books.