“Megan, I told you you’re not crazy.” Her tone is the same one my mother used right before I got a s******g as a kid.
“My shrink might disagree.”
“f**k him!”
“He’s not my type.”
“Quit being sarcastic, this is serious! Just because you’re going through a rough patch doesn’t mean you need to take drugs!”
“Those drugs can save people’s lives, Suzanne.”
“They can also end them!” she shoots back hotly. “You ever see the list of horrible side effects for those antidepressants? Uncontrollable thoughts of suicide is right at the top!”
I assume this is her experience with her institutionalized Uncle Roy talking, but I’m too irritated to get into it. People who’ve never had depression don’t have a clue what it’s like. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told to “just get over it” or “focus
