> Dear Raymi

> I’m 18. I live in the Midwestern United States. I don’t actually think that

> I am a headcase any more than anyone else, especially since I watched Oprah

> ce matin avec celebraties who were strapped down in mental institutions, and

> then there’s good ‘ol Anne Heche. But really, crazy celebs or not, I

> shouldn’t set that as a standard. I just said that because I was being

> self-critical and I wanted you to realize that I realize these things about

> myself. I am, though, generally depressed or extremely unhappy, which

> watching commercials and things, I’ve gathered that I have manic-depression

> and also sociel anxiety disorder, although, I am well past that teeny-bopper

> stage in my life where one reads all about mental illnessess and frets over

> them and believes that they are so unique. I have never been to a therapist

> and never intend to, because (I don’t know how it is in Canada) the United

> States drug companies are cruel pill-pushers who desire profits, and while I

> know that some people find manic depression unbearable, I quite like it. At

> times I am incredibly creative and do not ever stop writing. I feel that the

> manic state is well worth the later consequences of depression. I should

> wonder what the world would be like if Van Gough or someone wonderful was

> medicated. And besides, Sylvia Plath was treated, and it apparently did not

> serve her well. Do you ever wonder, dear internet friend and distant

> relative to Jack Kerouac, how many lost artists are out there, living day to

> day life as ‘normal’ zombies because of medication, all the while their gift

> of creativity is living an obscure, dorment existance because it is being

> repressed with prozac/paxil/zoloft? Sanity is not statistical.

>