I may be right, I may be crazy

There’s this theory of human perspective I’ve been reading about called depressive realism. It posits that depressed people actually have better judgment and a more accurate perception of reality because they are more realistic about their own image, importance and abilities.

Unlike happy people who see the glass as half full, depressives recognize that it doesn’t much matter whether the glass is half full or half empty because whatever the volume, the water likely contains toxic levels of lead.

You can read more about depressive realism here:


You would think a theory proposing that depressed individuals have a greater sense of reality would make me, as a depressed person, feel validated in my emotional tailspins. You would think I would want to deliver a big, fat “I told you so!” to all those unperceptive optimists who told me over the years to “cheer up” and that “things are going to be okay,” but there is no victory in this for me. It doesn’t make me feel better to know I’m correct in my assumption that I suck! Knowing that things are as bad as I think they are doesn’t give me any comfort! And I think others would tend to agree with that sentiment.

Chicken Little thinks the sky is falling but he’d, of course, prefer if it didn’t.

Jack’s son Danny in The Shining probably would have been okay if his premonition about the Overlook Hotel turned out not to be true. He wouldn’t have complained if it was closer to Disneyland than a freak show.

The person with the headstone that says, “I told you I was sick” would rather stand corrected and be called a hypochondriac.

I find these life-affirming findings to be extremely unsettling. I don’t know what to do with them; they’ve turned my sad world upside down. Like, if I’m right about my depression, does that mean I shouldn’t be depressed after all? I don’t know.

What difference does it make, really, if I’m going to die of lead poisoning anyway?