I never did read Prozac Nation, by Elizabeth Wurtzel, but I did read More, Now, Again. I don’t remember a lot of it, now, because I was so young when I read it (so young that, had I brought it to the counter, they wouldn’t have sold it to me). I found it on my sister’s book shelf and decided it looked nice enough to read. So, I read it.
Maybe that’s why I’m so fucked up, now. It explains a lot, I think, really, it does.
It popped into my head a couple of minutes ago that, truly, we are the Prozac Nation. It occurred to me a couple of days ago when someone was complaining to me about how her new psych meds were driving her crazy. And how my sister, a couple weeks ago, mentioned how you get a high if you take enough Midol. She would know, of course, being a huge pill popper.
Not that I would advise taking so much Midol. I figure it has the same effect of taking four Midol and drinking a cup of coffee, which makes you fucking crazy. I swear, I was walking through my house afterwards, and the sound of my own feet on the floor made me jump every time I listened hard enough to hear it. Not good. I wonder if that’s what it feels like to be on, like, crack, or something. Crazy.
Have you ever thought about the statistics for depression in our country? Lemme dig some up for you.
9.5% of all Americans were diagnosed with a depressive disorder in one year.
Pre-schoolers are the fastest growing market for anti-depressants.
30% of all women are depressed (makes sense, considering that we have to deal with men).
41% of all depressed women are too embarrassed to seek help.
Isn’t that insane?
I just wish there was something we can do about it, not that there is.
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