Uit de oude doos...

Uit pure wanhoop en poging tot zelfvermaak speur ik mijn pc nog maar eens door naar leuke stukjes die ik al lang geleden heb geschreven. Er is er een, een klein verhaaltje eigenlijk, dat ik schreef om alle afkortingen tijdens mijn studie beter te onthouden. Uiteraard was dit je reinste studietijd verspilling, zeker omdat ik bedacht had dat ik vast meer succes zou hebben als ik in het engels schreef in plaats van mijn moedertaal. Hier dus voor de gene die ook een SOG-moment heeft:)

liefs

A Hypochondriac.

I am a chicken. I know I am a chicken. Not the kind of chicken that runs around on your lawn and drops eggs everywhere it pleases, of course. I’m anxious, not delusional. I would be a pretty damn genius real chicken to write this, then. But I’m not a genius. I’m abnormal in an other way. I worry. I don’t have one big fear like people who are scared of spiders, or mice, or wallstreet crashes. Instead of that I fear problems. I am afraid of not meeting my own standards. I am worried about my own capacities during approximatly half of my day. I said I was abnormal. Worrying meets some criteria of abnormality. For instance, the amount of my worrying is unusual. I know not many people who have the same problem as me. Ofcourse we all worry sometimes, about our lives or jobs, or about cheating spouses. But as long as it doesn’t affect your functioning, you’ll be just fine. Worrying is very discomforting, which is also one of the criteria, as the word allready says for itself. Now, I wouldn’t go so far to say worrying is a mental illness, but I wonder if a schizo would call himself mentally ill out of the blue. It is maladaptive, though. I’m worried my worries affect my functioning, which makes me worry more until my worries really do affect my functioning. I am well aware of the fact that if I would stop worrying, things would just get a lot easier for me. But eh, try to tell a smoker once that smoking is bad for your health.

Actually I am doing a lot better than I used to do. Now I am just worrying. Last year I was depressed. Now being depressed is really a bitch. There are several ways to be depressed, just like there are several ways to drive from my house to the sea. It all depends on which sea you’re going to, eh?

First, you have the unipolar depression. I figured why they call it unipolar. It feels like you are alone on one of the poles. In wintertime, ofcourse. Only cold, dark, empty, but full on the same time. Nothing happens, but everything is still too much. It makes it seem that bipolar depressions are better since you at least also get some summertime. And in the summer you can do and see everything, and you won’t notice that others think you can’t and call you a maniac. Like on the north and southpole, your life consists out of one long day, filled with joy, activeness and good spirit, followed by one long night of darkness and emptyness.

If you thought that was enough, depression has a lot of subtypes. Some depressions are endogeneous, or autonomous, which means they appear and dissappear by themselves as a biological process. Some are reactive and provoked by certain life events. Some show a bunch of physical symptoms, some make you loose touch with reality. They make you binge like a pig, or sleep like a hog. Especially Seasonal Affective Disorders, abbreviated SAD. How typical. SAD’s usually have an annual pattern. My folks used to think I was SAD. The only thing was I was sad from September till June. It turned out I wasn’t SAD, but ADD. I love psychological abbreviations!