The Abyss (Quote regarding depression)

Because depression is so unpleasant and so impairing, it may be difficult to imagine that there might be another way of thinking about it; something this bad must be a disease. Yet the defect model causes problems of its own. Some sufferers avoid getting help because they are leery of being branded as defective. Others get help and come to believe what they are repeatedly told in our system of mental health: that they are deficient. . . . People still feel inclined to whisper when they talk about depression. Depression has no “Race for the Cure”; this condition rarely spawns dance marathons, car washes, or golf tournaments. Consequently, the lacerating pain of depression remains uncomfortably private.

– Jonathan Rottenberg


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The Depths: The Evolutionary Origins of the Depression Epidemic Author: Jonathan Rottenberg

The Depths: The Evolutionary Origins of the Depression Epidemic
Author: Jonathan Rottenberg




he stands above the sink
and drums dumb thumbs
into the plastic pebbles
of his mobile

it is 10pm the cats are
nestled like miniature kettles
on the couch

he looks at the warm foam
floating in the sink
he ate
two burgers
gnawed at them
with intent

he leans over the sink
and washes
the grazed faces
dirty smiles

a claw of ketchup
curls over a finger
like a savage comma
reminds him
only the lonely have scars

only the lonely
ones dream
of days flaking
off the skin
like old food
thin memories
melt between bubbles
and beermugs

he exhales
sighs attempts
to muffle
nodules of tears
which swirl
chatter crumble
scrap and gurgle
into the plughole


the can-man (revised)

Harry was a can man
‘the best in town’
built bridges on tears
that fell
down to the

Harry had a must
bent and bothered
The rest of us
He drew with him a fair
but he could not hear the

Harry was a grand spick-an-span
man. He saw no evil
or heavy regret that
rusted in our throats.
He made the world find a laugh,
because he could not hear the music.

Harry was today’s fan, he babbled
away that he had a plan, to solve the
waste the draped the day.
That only happened in hairy tales
it told toddlers playtime was up,
a toy was about to break.

Harry lost the fans, the can
and his plan. They all fell away
like folding cards, buckled behind
bigger fears.

He cried in his stone-cloned room,
he lost the nerve to pick up
his drooping head.
Harry could whisper, a small
‘if only’ that fell onto his drawing
of the best can man in town. a
Giant who spoke resounding thoughts
(and most probably)
could hear the music.