I’m not a psychologist.
I’ll repeat: I am not a psychologist. I took five psychology courses during undergrad: intro, social, abnormal, personality, and developmental. Almost enough for a minor, but not enough to change my amateur status. I passed, for the most part, with middling grades in all of the courses except for one (I aced developmental, which I can only attribute to my girlfriend’s insistence that I’m still mentally thirteen years old).
I don’t understand depression, either.
I’m part of the lucky ninety-something percent: the ones who haven’t found themselves on the short end of a diagnosis.
I don’t – perhaps can’t – understand the struggle of those in the remaining fraction of the populace, because my brain allows me to experience the world “normally” according to the American Psychiatric Association. I can sympathize with their suffering, but that’s all I can do; I can’t live in their world, and I can’t will myself into depression any more than they can will themselves out. (more…)