I strongly believe that when I am sick and my immunity is down, isolation makes for faster healing, and prevents the invasion of another colony of attackers. And so, in the same way that I choose to isolate myself when I have the flu, or a nasty cold, or a sore throat, by default I isolate myself when I have other maladies including sadness. Whether it is a conscious or a subconscious decision, I can’t be sure. But I do know that I do what I do cause I don’t want to go out in public and indiscriminately spread sadness around.
That’s when neighbors and friends, who are eternally busy in the rush and crush of life, and who keep the roads around here hot and well-traveled because they can’t enjoy their own company, begin a campaign to find help for me. And soon they are stopping in daily, wanting to talk, wanting to share happy-pill stories, and wanting to rush me off to the medics for enthusiastic dispensation of samplers of an endless array of mind-altering drugs.
Now, admittedly, it is difficult to get statistics on drug use – with no accurate way of recording street drugs and weak-tracking of prescription drugs. But it has been suggested that one in ten of all the people in North America take mind-altering drugs. That leads me to believe it has become a fashion trend rather then a rapidly perpetuating medical circumstance.
Anti-depressants are dished out like candy to people like me who have a natural reactive need for isolation because of the overwhelming stimulus of too much distressing information. The whole world seems committed to rousting out all anti-social people holed up in private places, to get them back on the busy pathways of what someone, somewhere, has deemed ‘normal’.
But is it them or is it me? Why can’t anyone understand that reclusive behavior can sometimes be better medicine for the sick at heart than mind-altering drugs. Why is it so hard to understand that what I need is time-out from blow-by-blow media descriptions that spare no details of everything going on in every corner of the globe? And that I need time-out from the corrupt and blatant lying tongues of those in seats of power? And time-out from the stupidity of those who commit unnatural acts that wound the innocent, weak, and vulnerable?
The helplessness I feel makes me long only to be left alone to ponder life. And to wonder when my intense desire to be left alone will be recognized as what it is. Not so much a symptom of depression as a healing biological reaction, like the natural formation of a scab to safely protect, bind, and heal an open wound.
And all of this bothersome demonstrated doting and concern just because I sometimes do like my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her. I shut off my television, pull the drapes, paste up my ‘do-not-disturb’ sign, dress myself in sackcloth and ashes, and go to my room muttering with complete disgust and discouragement…
“I don’t know what this world is coming to!”