I’d like to believe that depression is the price we pay for brilliance. Almost every depressed person I’ve ever known as been exceptionally skilled or intelligent in one way or another. Ernest Hemingway, another sufferer, once called it the “artist’s reward.”
Would we rather embrace our uniqueness, at the cost of this mental burden, or lose what makes us extraordinary so as to be mentally “normal”? I know it’s not always one or the other – I’m sure you could be unique and still be happy – but it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.