You're Wrong About Why You're Depressed

A new way to look at feeling suicidal
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There are reasons you feel depressed, but they may not be the ones you think they are.  Maybe you’re like me, you get really down sometimes for what seems like no reason, or an incredibly stupid one.

Say you overheard a friend say something mean, and you feel so blue you’re practically suicidal. Maybe . . . → Read More: You’re Wrong About Why You’re Depressed (Probably)

Low Self-Esteem? Big Whoop.

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I’ve written about low self-esteem before; I feel like a bit of an expert, a connoisseur even. I can spot lurking insecurities at 50 paces, which is why I’m always so flabbergasted when anyone says they’re surprised I’m not as confident as I appear.

Anyway, it’s a problem that casts a shadow over one’s . . . → Read More: Low Self-Esteem? Big Whoop.

Sleeping With the Enemy

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Sigmund Freud said, “Intelligence will be used in the service of the neurosis.” That is not only depressing, it’s true.

My brain drives me crazy. Literally. With my brain in the driver’s seat I’ve done, said, and perpetuated the nuttiest, most self-destructive stuff. All my life I’ve operated as though I can think myself . . . → Read More: Sleeping With the Enemy

Self-Esteem is Tricky

You hear a lot about self-esteem, and apparently you’re supposed to have it. A lot if possible. I have always found this tricky.

Of course, I’m old enough that when I was little, no one ever talked about self-esteem. On the other hand, not being too big for your britches, not acting conceited, those messages were heard loud and clear. (I think in elementary school, at least among us girls, “being conceited” was the worst thing of which you could be accused.)  At home I got the distinct impression I needn’t think too highly of myself, and tamp down whatever exhilaration any little girl grade success might bring on. When I was put in a gifted program I knew not to discuss it much at home so my brother’s feelings wouldn’t get hurt. I could have easily risen above all this accept for the fact that the accomplishment that meant most to me was being loved, being liked – or at the very least not not-liked. And so began my diligent immersion into self-effacement.

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