Not knowing where else to go or who else to turn to, I turn to you. As I have begun my second year at university and with the creation of the title of "sophomore" as I so readily and excitingly call myself, I have also begun to address my depression. At first it wasn't much, I passed it off with a wave. But that wave was solemn because I knew that it would be back to visit me soon. I acknowledged its departure in vain. Soon its visits to me began to increase in ferocity and repetitiveness. So too did my visits to my doctor. I have started treatment but all to soon have I started something else. The recollection of the fact that my writing, as a result of the medication, is not what it once was. The medication a rock, myself a sharp knife. The rock has made me dull. Have any of you ever experienced this sensation? If so, what is better? To live life without depression and its vices but to be subjected to the vacancy of creativity? Or to possess that spark we all hope will never extinguish but to be tormented by the demons of our own doing? What do I do?
You know that rocks can be used to sharpen knives?
I talked to my professor about this, he said that it took him years to get the dosage right. Don't get discouraged. How long have you been on the meds?
Additionally, antidepressants don't change your skill set, they change your PERCEPTION of your skill set. When you're off of them, youRe like "ugh I'm a tortured genius if only I could put pen to paper," but when you're on them you try to write and don't like what you've made.
I can see from your wall o'text that you're pretty damn upset. That sucks. Drink some water and watch some cartoons. There's beauty in brevity. Beautiful words are like beautiful women. If you see one in a crowd, you want to get to know her. If you see a crowd of fifty of them, there's no way for you to appreciate their individuality, you just see a crowd of beautiful women
It's going to be ok. I love you
no homo. Schedule an appointment with your psychiatrist whenever you can. Keep practicing writing.
All right you entitled prick. I'll bite.
This anon is right. You're depressed because your writing sucks and your writing sucks because you're boring.
You're 19 years old. At least you're smart enough to know your writing is shit? So you've got that going for you. Good job.
Now go out and get drunk and try to get laid. Go to a party. Figure out who your favorite rapper is. Watch TV or movies or sports. Pick up a guitar and learn how to play fucking Wonderwall or whatever other bullshit kids your age learn on the acoustic guitar. Go out and get drunk and try to get laid. Smoke pot with your friends and listen to music and talk about what they want to talk about, even if it's shitty Family Guy. Take a road trip with your friends for the dumbest fucking reason you can come up with. Join a shitty club or don't. Go out and get drunk and try to get laid.
You have zero life experience. That's why your writing sucks. That's why you're depressed. You're probably smart. The problem is you think you're smarter and better than everyone around you and you think you're 20 years beyond where you are and you probably think you're a genius and you just don't understand why you haven't written a magnum opus and no one understands you're a genius and why can't they see you're a prodigy(?) and, the truth is, deep down, you've just come face to face with the harsh realization that you're not. At least, not yet. And you're scared that you're just like everyone else.
Guess what? You are. And so were those "geniuses" you idolize so much. How do I know this is who you are? Take a guess.
Get some friends, bud. Stop talking like you're a 19th century Victorian romantic. You're not. No girl will want to fuck you and they're right. So stop. Act your age. Get some friends. Actually be their friend, not just for research purposes. Have fun. Get some life experience. Then think about writing.
Don't forget to go out and get drunk and try to get laid. Good luck.
Holy shit read some more books.
I mean, I too had depression as a teenager and I knew it sucked, but I'd also read enough to know that no one gave a shit about my teenage struggles because there's much realer shit once you get into the world.
Really just know that how much it sucks someday you'll look back at this and laugh at yourself. And that's never not true. When you're a teenager going through depression and angst and cutting yourself (like I did) just know (like I did) that someday 30 year old you will look back at that and laugh and wonder how you could ever be so bent out of shape out of that shit. Now that you've got to figure out your own fucking life and where to go from there and fucking christ money and finances and relationships and your parents are getting older and what's going to happen to them because they didn't save a fucking penny. And of course when you get there you just have to know that someday 50 year old you will look back on that and laugh over how you could be so bent out of shape over such inconsequential shit when you had you're health and women were still attracted to you and for christ's sake the world was your oyster. And of course 80 year old you, if you make it that far, will having nothing to do but laugh at the whole big path of worries and stupid shit that was your life and wonder how it every could have felt so damn important and why didn't you just stop and look at the way those trees move in the wind because that's all you ever need for life to be worth while.
Try different anti-depressants. Not all of them will fuck up your head, they work differently with everyone.
Depends on how your depression is... I weened myself off of them entirely about 4 years after getting on mine. Haven't needed them since. A lot of people are like this with depression, especially if you develop it as a teen. The chemical shit may work itself out over time.
No offense mate but this is garbage advice. Essentially he should either distract himself with an """"""""""experience"""""""""""" (even though suffering from depression is an experience in it of itself, hell even -not- doing anything you listed would be an experience, and certainly a unique one), do something he finds no interest in just for the sake of doing it, and of course have sex. Then after treating his life like a fucking grab bag of the world, he'll fulfill the criteria of being interesting to anonymous strangers on the internet. Oh and his writing will improve, even though there's no correlation between prose and life experiences. This is insanely banal advice, and will make him a false socialite, a phony, insincere, a literal "being-for-itself", a completely false person. Even better, this is advice without even knowing why OP is depressed, although lack of a confidant ("not knowing where else to go") is certainly part of it like you guessed, but the rest of your psychoanalysis is pure projection.
Instead, I would recommend OP do some serious self-reflection. Preferably through reading some literature. But most importantly the answer to whether the pills are worth it can only be answered by yourself. But at least spend some time knowing yourself before you come with an answer. It would certainly help on how seeing other authors deal with depression, like Kierk, and also improve your prose. How you should live is ultimately decided by yourself, not from anyone else.
Will your advice make him happy? Probably. Will it make his life fulfilling, which is the ultimate cure for depression? Probably not.