A King Without Diversion

Of all the feelings and sensations a human being can experience, which one do you think is the most dangerous?

Before you answer this, really think about it. Which feeling makes you the most destructive? Is it rage? Hatred? Jealousy? These feelings are directly destructive in the sense that they create a desire to harm those around you, or even yourself. Hatred can last a lifetime, and we’ve seen the consequences of it in, say, the Holocaust.

Which leads us to fear. Fear can be terribly destructive. Fear bred from ignorance is probably the most dividing emotion in society. I can’t think of a single war wherein fear didn’t play a part, in recruting troops for starters.

What about sadness? Depression? Despondency, hopelessness, pessimism? While not directly destructive, these emotions can prevent us from moving forward, sapping all hope and motivation to change the status quo.

Let’s go right to the opposite end of the scale and suggest pleasure. Pleasure breeds desire, which pushes us to seek more pleasure, which distracts us from what may be truly essential.

You might stop in the middle of the scale and then teleport down: numbness. Lack of feelings altogether, giving you the impression that you’re not even alive any more – this is a symptom of depression, but it might also lead to sociopathic behaviour.

I think the answer to the above question is different for each one of us, and there are probably several, and they change according to what’s going on in our lives right now. But for me, the answer is none of those.

It’s boredom.

Boredom is difficult to class on the emotional scale. You’d probably put it in the middle and a little on the negative side, or maybe slightly off-scale towards Numb, but it’s not quite the absence of feeling rather than the persistent desire to be doing something interesting coupled with a lack of motivation and ideas as to what. Sounds harmless, doesn’t it?

Well, like most feelings, a little of it in the right context and with moderation is a good thing. I hate pedophiles and reading about child abuse really pisses me off. I spent forty-eight hours doing practically nothing but sleeping and crying when Kitteh died, and that sadness had to come out, and it just goes to show how much I loved her. I do occasionally binge on sweets, but then I spend the rest of the week eating healthily because my body’s screaming in protest against the excess of sugar and I’ve learned to listen. Learning to listen to yourself is important no matter what you’re feeling, because the feelings won’t go away just because you wish it. You have to find a way of dealing with them.

Boredom, unfortunately, is difficult to hear. To start with, it’s not really just one feeling, but a mixture of several, and it doesn’t always manifest in the same way. Sometimes when I’m bored, and I stop and listen, I realise that I’m actually sad about something. Or that my restlessness comes from a desire to radically change some aspect of my life. A couple of years ago, when I was still with my ex, we decided to open our relationship, officially for reasons that looked good on paper, but really it was because I was bored.

I have no regrets concerning that period, because it was actually fun, and I learned a lot about myself while I was messing around with my FWBs, and it added spice to our relationship. Unfortunately, the fact that it pushed back the boredom also meant that it distracted me from what the boredom was trying to tell me, which was that we’d gone far enough in this relationship and were growing apart. In the end, we stayed together two years more than we really should have, because I was doing all I could to stop being bored, rather than sitting still and listening to myself.

And this is what most people do. When you’re a kid and you go and see your parents with a whiney “I’m booored!”, they give you something to do. Which is normal; nothing’s more irritating than a bored child. I have no doubt that I’m going to do that to my kids as well.

But sometimes an excess of boredom leads to destructive behaviour. You just have to watch Jackass to see this, but then there’s joyriding, gratuitous violence, drug use. Rape. I’m not saying all this is due to boredom, but seriously, have you ever met a drug user who didn’t start because they “just wanted to see what it was like”? Why do men use prostitutes? Why otakus? Why reality TV?

And don’t try to tell me that the solution would be to occupy everyone with more work, more school, more extra-curricular activities. There’s only so much you can fit into one life. Only so much time you can pursue your mindless routine before your brain catches up and you start getting those destructive impulses. You know the ones I mean. That voice in your head that says “I wonder what would happen if I jumped in front of that car? Or leaned really far out the window? Or stabbed my best friend with this kitchen knife?” It’s only a question that pops into your mind from nowhere, and you immediately jump back from it, thinking what the hell? and you step back from the road and the window and put the knife down, just in case. Because even though you’re still in control of your body, even though you remember how much you love your friend and how you don’t want to die, you still wondered – for a split second – what would happen if you committed that terrible act. And it wasn’t even out of sadness, or anger, or hate. It was out of interest. Because your subconscious is bored of this routine and some part of you yearns to change it.

So listen. Sit down and listen to yourself, listen to the little voice who’s sick of your life, and see what you can do to change it now. You’d be surprised, because when you sit still and let it all come to the front of your mind, and dig deep to find the reasons behind the destructive thoughts, you might find solutions that aren’t destructive at all. Most of us are only destructive when we stop listening to ourselves. The real you wants to live, create, dream, travel, change the world. Stop fleeing the boredom and look at what’s hiding underneath it, and see it as an opportunity to do something good.

Immune System Status: Fail

I love it when my immune system goes on vacation at the same time as me. It adds that little something extra to the photos, y’know? Red nose, puffy eyes, sweaters in summer.

However, it usually gets back to work once I’m back home. Maybe the death of my cat kept it at bay, in sympathy to her. It probably thought I needed to be alone.

Which is how I’ve managed to remain slightly ill for two weeks straight. First there was a really nasty cold, probably caught off this one guy on the train who kept coughing and wouldn’t put his hand over his mouth (I’m pretty certain everyone in that carriage got sick afterwards). This turned into a dry cough, hesitated around my tonsils then decided to dive right down into my lungs and try brochitis for a bit, was chased out by my actually taking meds and eating properly, leaving the cough, which turned back into a really nasty cold exactly a week after the first one, just in time for me to learn about Kitteh having to be put down, so y’know, I’d need tissues even when I wasn’t crying; and now that seems to have been replaced by a vague but persistent dizziness that won’t go away.

This after three months of near-perfect health, which is quite a lot for me. Maybe my body has decided to have all its illnesses at once to then I’ll be done for the rest of the winter.

I wish.

Grief.

Kitteh died. Kidney failure. We had to euthanise her.

I think the saddest thing is that, in the end, she wanted to die and put up no fight at all. Or maybe it’s the way she cuddled us and purred until the sedative set in, like she wanted to comfort us.

I love her so, so much.

Love something

I was going to post something along the lines of how important family is when I got back, but something more important has happened.

My cat is sick. We went on a week’s vacation to see my parents, leaving a friend with the keys, and said friend messaged us two days before we got home saying she wasn’t eating. At first we thought it was normal – in as much as being so depressed that she’s refusing to eat could be normal. We knew that when we went away, she had a tendency to sleep a lot, lick herself a lot, and eat little. She was still drinking, though, so it couldn’t be that bad.

When we got home, she seemed to be sulking. Which would be normal, although usually when we’d get home she’d have a little crazy run-about and then stuff her face with food, only to vomit it up later. We were used to this, and had already begun dosing the food in her bowl… except that she didn’t eat it, and we found a nasty red vomit stain on the sheets. That night she threw up twice, yellow bile.

A little nervous, I took her to the vet the next day. It’s a good job he was ten minutes away on foot because I couldn’t find her catbox and had to put her in her harness – which she hates – and carry her there, ignoring the stares of people who didn’t know cats could meow so loudly and holding her tight in case she panicked (which she did every time a car went past).

The vet diagnosed a tummy bug (“everyone’s got them at the moment”), gave her two jabs and prescribed an anti-inflammatory sirup and pills to take every morning. He warned me, however, that if she hadn’t eaten by this morning (two days later), she’d need a blood test.

That night she stopped drinking. I took the seringe from the sirup and used it to feed her water. It contained 1ml at max.

The next day she looked a little better, and drank on her own – at first. But as the day wore on, despite the meds, she progressively stopped moving, crying plaintively at us when we was thirsty. We had to accompany her to the water bowl and encourage her. Sometimes she tried to lap a little, but most of the time she just crouched there getting her neck fur wet and occasionally looking back to see if we were still there.

I took her back today. Did you know that when you take blood from a cat, you take it from their neck? The veins aren’t big enough elsewhere. She got another jab, of antibiotics this time, but no more prescription meds. I have to take her to a radiologist in another town so he can do a scan of her kidneys, which are swollen, and depending on that and the blood test results, she’ll probably have to be hospitalised.

Either that, or she’s got AIDS and has no chance.

I’m exhausted and terrified for her. I’ve lived with three cats, but Kitteh is mine. I brought her up. She’s not my baby… but to her, I’m her mother. She depends on me, and although this is costing a bomb and will probably cost us even more to come, I’d give my own blood to save her, if I could.

Caring for another living being makes you more human. I think children should be brought up with animals to care for, because it teaches them responsibility, but also compassion. When something else’s survival depends on you, you learn to put that thing first. And I think that, while we all need to take care of ourselves once in a while, in order to evolve towards that need, you first have to learn to take care of each other.

On the other hand, this experience has given me an idea of what a taxing job being a carer is. I don’t think it’s a job you can do well without becoming emotionally involved in it, which makes it not only physically exhausting, but also emotionally exhausting. I’m giving her seringes of water every half hour, and every time she manages to drink by herself, it cheers me up for an hour or so. When she meows at me like she’s in pain, I feel like crying. It’ll be a relief if they hospitalise her, because at least then I’ll know she’s in good hands, despite the fact that she’ll be scared and miserable away from home.

So I’d like to tell everyone who reads this that carers, temporary or permanent, whether they’re paid for what they do or not, deserve your respect. And that includes you, carer. Respect yourself, take care of yourself, and realise your own worth, because the work you do requires incredible strength, and the fact that you do it is priceless.

I Need To Take Care Of Me Right Now.

…is one of the phrases I’d often heard said, usually in the context of a TV series making some self-help-addicted woman look really selfish, and which suddenly made perfect sense during my last shrink appointment.

I need to take care of me right now.

Because self-sacrifice is all fine and dandy until you’re on your deathbed, regretting all the wasted opportunities you gave up on for someone else. Who probably didn’t even ask you to.

Because resentment is good for absolutely nobody.

Because just reading job offers – “Assistant – Master’s degree and at least 2 yrs exp minimum – 3 month part time contract.” is enough to make me want to curl up in the corner and rock myself gently until the day is over and I can go to sleep and forget.

Because the smallest setback – spilt milk – can trigger tears these days, and I’m having trouble functioning.

Because I have no fucking choice.

Not that you’d notice. We had a hallowe’en party last night, and I bet absolutely none of the guests guessed (LOL) that I was depressed (TRIPLE RHYME COMBO YEAH!!!). That’s because I was on a Revelation High since the shrink appointment on Wednesday. I still am. Because I’m extremely lucky, in that my partner (despite being a phone monkey and wanting desperately to quit his job) has enough income for both of us, and after discussing it post-Revelation, has agreed to allow me a few months in which to concentrate entirely on all my creative activities. Starting with NaNoWriMo.

So yes, for about forty-eight hours I didn’t feel depressed AT ALL. I went to the station to get our also-depressed friend M, who was in a pretty normal state, and we nattered cheerfully about our experiences in depression and watched TV until Honey came home and made us cocktails. We spent the evening playing instruments. The next day we did pre-hallowe’en shopping, cleaned the flat, prepared food, moved tables, and then three of our friends turned up to help decorate. I carved my first pumpkin (we never did that when I was young) and then the sweets came out, and we put on the special hallowe’en playlist I’d made, and another guest turned up, and we started eating and drinking and the party got gently underway.

More guests arrived around eight-ish. It was a pretty calm party, in that there was little dancing and we could hear each other talk, but it was by far lively enough to be enjoyable. Not everyone knew each other, but they all got along fine.

As it got towards eleven, I got tired. Alcohol does that. My antidepressants are mild and herbal enough that there are no counter-indications against drinking, but maybe that contributed. I changed into my pjs and spent another half hour listening to the talk and occasionally nodding off. I was about to go when I noticed our friend outside the window with his head on his knees. So I went out to see how he was.

“You ok?”

“I’m fine.”

I knelt down and hugged him, and he started sobbing quietly, so I kept hugging him until he stopped. It took about fifteen minutes. My bare feet got really cold. I was shivering. I knew this, but alcohol thickens the wall between me and my senses, which was an advantage right then, so I just stayed there feeling stoical and stroking his head.

At some point Honey came out to ask if we needed anything, went back in and brought me socks, then left us to it. And M began to speak.

He really had just gone out to get a breath of fresh air, and hadn’t expected the tears. He’d been surprised and embarrassed when they started. He honestly was over his ex (who was in the living room) and hoped she didn’t feel like it was her fault he was in this state, because it wasn’t, it was his own, he was really sick of being unable to control his emotions and reactions and it was weird because he was, like, the opposite of a control freak, he hated being given control because he was terrified of making mistakes, he preferred to let others make his choices for him; but that was paradoxical because he also hated not knowing what was going to happen next, and he hates being paradoxical like that, he knows he’s a good person and really wishes he could stop judging himself and build up his self-esteem again because it’s detroying his life…

I nodded along with it, because although those weren’t my problems, I knew what he meant. I occasionally mentioned something my shrink or Honey or someone else had once told me, that I thought might make sense to him, if not now then later. I told him he had to accept the feelings in order to let them pass. I told him it would get better.

Some time later, when he’d wound himself down and was just melodramatically repeating what he’d said earlier, I recognised that he’d had his say and now it was the drink talking. Honey chose that moment to conveniently turn up and say someone was asking for me, and took M back inside. I said my goodnights and went to bed.

The next day, I felt odd about what had happened. M hugged me a few times in the morning, and said thank you several times, I said “any time”, because that’s the right thing to do.

The problem is that the right thing to do doesn’t really correspond to my “Taking Care Of Me Right Now” thing. And that’s a problem, because although I don’t feel like it all the time, I am depressed, and a depressed person is probably not the best confidant another depressed person could have. I’m pretty sure that if M decides to confide in me all the time, I’m going to have to say “stop” very soon, because although I love him very much, I can’t handle it right now. And he can’t handle me breaking down while he’s breaking down either.

I think this is what people mean when they say you need a “network” to help you through depression. Honey is part of both of our networks, but he lives with me, so M can’t count on him too much, or we’ll drag him down with us. M doesn’t live with anyone, and has trouble confiding in his parents. He doesn’t want to worry anyone, and lives 50 miles away from us anyway.

I thought about this for a while, and came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do given the circumstances was to encourage M to confide in other close friends. To build up his own network of people to prevent him falling down that black hole. I felt satisfied with this solution until I realised that I wasn’t doing that either. So far I’ve been depending solely on Honey. I have few friends here, and I don’t feel close enough to them yet to confide in them about this kind of thing.

It doesn’t matter. I speak to my mother over Skype almost daily. Honey’s mother knows I’m on medication and called the other day to ask how I was doing. One of my best friends told me off the other day for not telling her I wasn’t doing too well, and insisted I talk to her when I’m upset, even if she doesn’t understand. Technology means I can create my own network, and if I don’t want to drag Honey down with me, I have to. Taking Care Of Me Right Now is not a selfish sitcom cliché. It’s an obligation, and I have to find people to help me do it.

Bad day

I like how the title defines the core subject of this article.

I have a headcold. It’s like a normal cold only with a headache. Actually it’s mostly headache – thankfully – because usually when I have a cold, I use up a tree’s worth of tissues. If I ever get round to becoming ecologically self-sufficient, finding a hygienic substitute to blow my nose with will probably be half the battle.

That, and I slept badly, because my partner made some kind of jerking movement in his sleep that my half-awake brain misinterpreted to mean he was having another epileptic fit, and it took me about an hour to calm down enough to get back to sleep. Which is a lot for me – I tend to sleep too much.

I got up early this morning out of pure stubbornness, and I’m already regretting it. One nasty – but not untrue – reply to a comment I made on another blog was enough to turn on the waterworks and make me feel like giving up, or would have been had I not still been in my stubborn mood. So instead I just said “NO.” And ignored it. Except that it’s not working, because there are a million other little things that are building up and I can feel the nerve ball in my solar plexus swelling like a water balloon full of tears, and it’s a good job I’m seeing the shrink this afternoon because a friend of ours is coming afterwards and he’s also depressed and if I start crying in front of him I’ll probably set him off and Honey will come home to us both wailing on the sofa and he’s having such a shit day at work and-

Maybe I should take that guy Conor’s advice and just sit with my depression for a while. I just hope the “friend” doesn’t stay with me past 2pm. I’m supposed to have a life after that.

Depression is your friend

Depression is your friend

Another point of view on depression. One that is not wrong.

The Importance of People

And by that I mean, it is important that you continue to see people even though you’re depressed.

Yesterday I got up, and it was one of those days where you just don’t want to get out of bed. But I was hungry, so I did. At the same time as my partner, for once. And I burst into tears at the table AGAIN. Second time in less than a week. There was no particular reason, other than the very childish “I don’t want you to go to work and leave me on my own”, which I managed to blurt out guiltily after five minutes of cuddling and cajoling.

Now I don’t exactly remember what he did to make me feel better, but it was something along the lines of going back to bed for ten minutes, to the detriment of his breakfast (and almost making him miss the train for work – don’t think he’d have been all that bothered, mind), and spooning me while talking in that “it’s going to be alright” voice about all the things I had to look forward to, including our hallowe’en party on Thursday. Because yes, on one of those days when I was feeling normal, I decided we’re having one. Cancelling would disappoint about fifteen people. No pressure.

But I’m actually quite confident that I can pull off the “I’m ok” costume, because the outcome of yesterday’s pre-breakfast tearfest was that Honey went to work, and I spent the day making fingerpuppets. I made four. I’m quite proud of them.

Then he came home all bunged up and this morning we went to see the doctor, and long story short, he has the day off. While we were there I asked for some happy pills as advised by my shrink (who is a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, and therefore cannot prescribe meds), and later, when my boyfriend was tucked back up in bed and it was 10 am so they had to be open by now, I went to get our prescription from the chemist’s.

All went well until it came time to pay, and I didn’t have enough. I was surprised because I thought our social security would take care of most of the cost, and the chemist snapped that it didn’t, looking at me like I was stupid. Under her impatient eye I tried to ring Honey to see if he could come and pay for them – I only had half the amount and it was only a five minute walk – but he didn’t answer, so I had to leave the meds in her care and go back home, wondering what was wrong with me and why I felt like crying every time something didn’t go my way.

I waited until I got in to burst into tears, but they’d been burning in my eyes the whole way back so I had to keep my head down. Honey came was once again adorable. He told me he was feeling better already and promised to go and get the meds that afternoon, and we spent an hour or so watching some superhero series in bed while I vengefully crocheted a hat, realised it looked more like a kippa than a panda’s head, and even more vengefully undid the whole thing.

By this time I was calm, but not sociable. I had my voluntary work scheduled that afternoon, and didn’t feel like going at all, in spite of the fact that the people there are really nice and friendly and not prying. But I decided to go anyway, because party organising means I won’t be able to on Thursday, and tomorrow I have an appointment with my shrink and there is no guarantee I’ll get out of that in one piece. So I went.

It was quiet. There were no other volunteers, just my “boss”, and few clients. She talked about the drama going down between her and her bosses and one of the volunteers, and I listened (I love a good story) and it distracted me from my own instability. I worked, and felt useful. I told her I wouldn’t be there on Thursday and she said it was fine, like she always does. She likes me because I turn up when I say I will and call to warn her if I can’t, which a surprising amount of volunteers don’t.

When I got out, I had a text from my sister saying she misses me. And another from Honey asking if I wanted picking up since it was raining. When he came, evidently feeling better, he told me he’d been to the chemist’s and this is more or less how it went down:

Chemist no. 1 – Who took care of your partner’s order? They seem to have put them away…

Chemist no. 2 – I did. After an hour or so I thought she wasn’t coming back.

Honey  – Can I just speak to this lady for a second? *He takes her to one side.* Madam, you do know what these particular tablets are prescribed for?

Chemist no. 2 – Of course, they’re mild antidepressants.

Honey – So you have an idea of the effect your words and tone had on the young lady who came here to get them this morning?

Chemist no. 2 – …

Chemist no. 1 – *Evesdropping in the background, looking smug*

Chemist no. 2 – *mortified*.

I laughed. But I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while. In the meantime I finally have something to take while I’m waiting for my brain to sort itself out, mild enough that there should be no side effects. We’ll see.

The point is that the people in your life are important, and one person is not enough. Even if the people you see don’t know you’re depressed, just seeing them helps so much. And if it doesn’t, tell them. They might not understand, but they’ll want to help, and that will make you feel valued.

Drops and glasses

Because yes, last night’s inner child temper tantrum wasn’t just exhaustion, or a case of the Hormones. I was Having Issues (yes I like emphasising important words with capitals, get used to it). I realised this when I burst into tears at the table, and had to choke my way through the food (because he’d gone to the effort to make something really nice as well, and was being such an angel, I couldn’t just leave it) before getting up, giving him what must have been a pretty gross kiss, and saying “I love you but I need to be alone for a while,” and half-running to the bedroom to cry my confused little heart out.

I found myself thinking not of the events of the past few days, but of other, more on-going things, things that had to do with our relationship. I’m very, very good at lying to myself to “protect” something, which it inevitably doesn’t. This is basically a conflict avoidance technique. I pretend I’m ok with the situation so I don’t have to tell my partner/friend/coworker/boss (God forbid) that I’m not.

There were three things. The first was sexual, and was the fault of both of us. I’m not going to go into the details, but after close analysis, the root of the problem turned out to be psychological – and the same for both of us. I suppose I should have realised this, but Honey has the same problem with walls that I have: he has trouble letting them down, ever. His looks more like a laboratory than a grey veil of thoughts – rather than distance himself from a situation by thinking of a million other things, he distances himself from his feelings so that he can analyse the situation coldly and logically. You can imagine how this is not conducive to good sex, for either of us.

So we agreed to work on that by continuing to see our shrinks to learn how to let our walls down.

The second problem was sort of linked to the first one and sort of linked to the third. I’m non-monogamous, I’d almost say by nature, and over the past few months of us living together for the first time, we’d decided to have a monogamous phase. At the time of the decision, both of us needed it. But now I think I need to go back to having a lover. At first I thought it was mostly because Honey simply has less libido than I do and putting pressure on him to be ready every time I want it would be counterproductive. But I’ve realised that this is more linked to the third problem, which is that I’m way more independant than I ever thought I was.

To be clear: I have always needed solitude. I was a total introvert as a child, and even now that I’m an adult with actual social needs, I do need quite a bit of me-time. But what with me being jobless and therefore alone in the house most days, I didn’t think this would be a problem now.

But there is a difference between independence and solitude. I’m alone in our flat, with our stuff, and we’re connected through facebook most of the day anyway. We still do everything together, it’s like we’re fused at the hip. And I need to de-fuse from him. I need my own space – we do have a second bedroom that we currently use for storage – somewhere where I won’t have to compromise on the space allocated to me, on the colours, on what I do there. Somewhere that is mine.

And I need more than that. I need my own friends, because the only friends I’ve got here are either his friends or our friends who were once just his. I need to be able to jump on the train and go see my friends back home, and my family, without him. I need to be miss him, so that I can be glad to return home.

When I realised this, crying into (and occasionally punching) his pillow on the bed, I was overcome with a sort of flat elation followed by calm. I missed living alone. I’d only done it for a year, but it had been great, because I’d been it total control of my life. And when I live with someone else, I stop controlling my life and let the other person do it. I automatically abandon ideas that the other person wouldn’t like, or isn’t enthusiastic about, again, to avoid conflict. I adapt to their needs, to the point where I neglect my own.

This isn’t their fault. It’s the way I am, and I need to be aware of that, and keep a certain amount of independance. It only becomes their fault if they try to prevent me from doing this, and Honey has been doing the opposite. It’s a bit frustrating trying to accuse him of stuff that is actually my own fault.

So we agreed that the second bedroom would be mostly mine, but he is allowed a zen corner to write in with his laptop. And I’m seeing friends who are “mine” from my evening class this weekend, and he has agreed not to come. I feel a bit mean about this because Honey doesn’t have any friends in this town either, they’re all back where he used to live, and he has no evening classes. But he has reassured me saying that he makes friends way easier than me anyway, which is true. I’ve never seem him act shy.

The only thing we haven’t agreed upon yet it when we’re going to open the relationship again. It sort of worked long distance, and even then we had problems. Will living together make it better or worse? Either way, I have to wait until he’s ready, and he doesn’t feel ready yet. So that’s still in limbo.

And then we had the best sex we’ve had since the beginning of our relationship (so just over a year ago) because we were both There.

The point is that both of us thought we’d gotten over our ability to lie to ourselves. Honey thought that he was reaching the end of his need for therapy. And then I had a temper tantrum and proved us both wrong. And instead of making me feel daunted by the task of learning to be present with each other, and learning not to lie to ourselves, I feel relieved because we’ve figured out what the problem was, and it’s the same thing for both of us, which means we understand each other better. The problem is named, now we can solve it. It’s like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Which is a very nice thing to feel when you’re depressed.