STORMFOAM: a gulph nascent in your charity

I have previously been reluctant to seek professional help for what I am now told is severe clinical depression largely because my depression, at least over the last 2 or 3 months, has been the most consistently amusing source text available to me. I am told that my indulgence in cannabis “isn’t working, is it?”. How to make a wall of noise work, exactly. Or, more to the point: how to make it work for me. Given that there is at least a nominal reputation of successful aesthetic effects “working”(see the alleged overdetermination towards the bottom of paragraph 2), and the recently availingly complexified negation structure for “not-working-working” -“Mummy, I have been raped.” “Don’t you mean graped?” “No, there were a bunch of them.” - how exactly am I to conceive of this working in the context I am asked not to be facetious about, namely therapy?

It isn’t as simple as merely brushing aside state-mandate ghostride drugs rhetoric, they have their kind of point. The kind of work that weed indisputably facilitates is not operative on the therapeutic time-scale, e.g. months and years. I don’t live in this shape; life on that scale only ever exists in a mode of anticipation inextricable from judging the value of its event-contents, skeletally unliving like. Part of me really hopes you fill your sick bag when you read this. But I really don’t live at that measure, I live in splashes of three or four days that recover their interconnections anecdotally in my memory. So in what sense is working for a life I do not actually live a kind of working for me? The “I” is sitting here practically wetting itself waiting to be deconstructed conceptually, or at least to be remorselessly disaggregated into its various interest groups. The thing is, though, I really do find positive value in my sentimental insistence on the representability of this “I”, however dubious its ideological foundations. Only “I” can be depressed (see returns indicated above.) How can I make it not sound like some kind of confession, or at least a capitulation to the earnestness of the graph into which I was so tenderly plugged yesterday morning, when I say: no, really, depression is shit. I cried when I woke up this morning, no jokes. I want to be happy again. Really, they know what they’re talking about. I don’t want to seem like an ingrate. But a question like “has life seemed like it would be better off without you?” - how am I allowed to giggle when I am asked this and not feel like a fraud?

Anyhow, champions, all is well. This is the first day of the rest of my memory. Peace be with you all.