Some meaningful “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
Some random “Time spent with cats is never wasted.”
Some wise “Most people do not really want freedom, because freedom involves responsibility, and most people are frightened of responsibility.”
And some, downright mean. Like this little gem I happened upon: “The goal of psychoanalysis is to convert neurotic misery into ordinary unhappiness.”
And here I thought the objective of all this therapy was my eventual happiness…
Nope. It is, in fact, to take my Technicolor drama of a life and transform it into the everyday.
I have been cheated. I don’t want to be unhappy in ‘the normal way’. If I must be unhappy I want it to be the tragic suffering of a heroine, the melancholy only a Queen can feel or the exquisite despair reserved exclusively for saints.
I don’t want to be just a little bit down like Mrs. Marshall across the road. Good lord. Why bother with 4 years of drama school if all I am up to, is feeling blue, a bit sad or off colour... Where’s the poetry in that?
So I am off to read some Jung. I am sure he has something more uplifting and insightful to say about my brand of super special, extra deep – think abyss – depression.
This isn’t everyday stuff Mr. Freud. I am special. A princess. I know its true - my dad told me so.