Why I Had a Mental Breakdown

R at the Lawrence Hall of Science

I have alluded before to the fact that our trip to the US was mostly disastrous, and ended with me more-or-less having a mental breakdown, that I am only now recovering from. It's still hard for me to pinpoint exactly what happened, but basically I had decided to go off psychiatric medication and try for a second child. One of these, or both, did not agree with me, and I found myself getting more and more unhappy. I decided to go see a therapist.

Dressed as a turtle

Unfortunately, she was highly incompetent. Among other things, I complained to her about B, blaming my unhappiness primarily on him, and using selective examples to bolster my case. I had already started to manifest some BPD-like symptoms, where depending on the day B was either perfect in every way or cause of everything unpleasant in my life. Rather than her noticing that my thinking patterns were distorted, and helping me to unravel them (as one would hope from a mental health professional), she accepted everything I said as the truth and even went farther, encouraging me to perceive B as abusive and mentally unstable (which he isn't). Partly this is my fault, because I wanted her to approve of me (another BPD-like symptom) and thus began to tailor what I said to meet what I perceived as her expectations. After three sessions, she began telling me that I had some serious decisions to make and urging me to divorce B. I did not want to divorce him at all, but felt so confused and mentally fragile that I had a hard time knowing what to do. Instead, B and I began constantly fighting as I quickly oscillated between clinging to him frantically and screaming at him.

On top of the life-size blue whale statue

In the middle of all this, we had to go to the US, to stay with my family for a month. B considered not going (among other reasons, because I had told my family the version of events in which everything was B's fault) but I begged him to come, so he did. However, he didn't want to stay with my family 1. for so long (their house is very small, with very thin walls) and 2. when I had basically turned them against him. I felt this was unacceptable, largely out of fear about what my mother would say/do. We fought about this issue over and over, moving back and forth from B in a hotel and R and me with my parents, to all of us in a hotel, to all of us with my parents, etc. etc. Meanwhile my mother wasn't really speaking to B, I felt caught in the middle and completely confused about what was going on, and B was under a tremendous amount of stress. Eventually things reached a point where I felt I had to choose between B and my family, and I felt that I just couldn't do it. Instead, I became suicidal and extremely depressed (I actually had to go back on medication while in the US). I cried pretty much every day of our visit, sometimes for hours at a time.

At Playland-Not-at-the-Beach

All the drama meant that I did not have a very good time on our visit, though Christmas Day was nice and our trip to Chicago was great (and a welcome reprieve from both fighting and drama in general). I also did almost none of the fun things I had planned on doing. In fact, I only have photos from three outings for the whole month (though we did go on a few more--to Fairyland and a holiday fair with a carousel, for example).

Christmas mini train set

R mostly had a great time--she loved hanging out with her doting relatives--but for me it was extremely traumatic, so much so that I am only able to write about it now, eight months later. We are planning to go back this Christmas, and even thinking of it makes me feel terribly nervous. It is really sad, because I love my family, and miss them so much, and yet being around them caused me so much stress and suffering.

Life Update, August

We went to Vietnam for a week for my birthday, which was surprisingly enjoyable (both because I have had trouble enjoying myself of late, and because we had a rather bad time there on our last visit, including getting chased by a knife-wielding maniac).

I am finally feeling significantly better and have made real progress. The almost-nightly meltdowns and suicide threats have vanished, and while I still get upset it is both much less dramatic and shorter-lived (it used to take me hours or even days to get back to baseline, for instance). I wouldn't say that I am completely better yet, but maybe at 70 or 80%? It's a little hard to judge, because part of being mentally ill is that your reality is a bit distorted. When I was really ill, I would have said that of course I was a little depressed, but there was nothing seriously wrong with me: I used to argue with B about this actually, as he wanted me to acknowledge that I was really ill, and I was only sporadically willing to do this (depending on my mental state at the time). It seemed like such a personal failure to admit to even myself how crazy I was, especially because I don't have a good "excuse" (ie no abusive or unloving family, history of sexual assault or something similarly lurid).

I haven't really written that much about my mental problems, both because of the denial issue and because when you are having mental problems, you do not have either the energy or mental organization for writing anything, even blog posts. The denial issue is by far the more important factor though. I don't keep the fact that I have had mental problems a secret (if only because I am the world's worst liar): all my friends and family know that I have been depressed and struggling. I still feel like I am keeping secrets though, because no one knows the full extent of things except B, really. Telling people that you have been having problems with depression and anxiety, and are thus seeing a therapist, doesn't really communicate "FUCKED UP" if you are simultaneously well dressed, articulate, cheerful and a calm, loving parent.

Leaving out the parts that DO communicate such a thing (like the fact that for a while I attempted to hurl myself out of our high-rise apartment windows several times a week, requiring B to literally physically restrain me) makes me feel like a fraud. There is no way I am going to tell anyone this stuff, though, both because it is TMI for almost everyone except the very closest, and I don't want to upset those people (my parents, for example) because it would cause them frantic worry and yet there's nothing they can do. Maybe this is a good reason to have an anonymous blog...

Beyond mental drama and visiting Vietnam, things have been fairly quiet around here. We went to Batam again (fun!), went to Pulau Ubin again and went hiking at Sungei Buloh again on successive weekends (a good sign, because non-depressed-Amanda likes to see/do stuff while crazy Amanda can't handle any variations from routine).

R is a great joy to both B and me. She is all jokes and fun and imagination, up for almost anything (she loves exploring and is tremendously curious about everything, from the emperor's palace in Vietnam to banana trees in Pulau Ubin), and seems to get older by the nanosecond. She is so affectionate and loving ("Mommy, I weally love you. I love you just the way you are.") and wants nothing more than to be with us 24-7 (even if some of that time would involve ignoring us while we sat at attention). She has her moments of tantrum and naughtiness, but they are really minor in the scheme of things. More tiring are her enthusiasm and energy, which are both very high (not in the hyper sense, in the verve sense: that word seems to have been coined just for R). But without them she would not be herself, and honestly to me she is perfect. I couldn't imagine a better child (which sounds horribly sappy but is the truth).

Being Mentally Ill Sucks

There's a lot of things I don't like about dealing with mental illness, the main one being that you are miserable and tend to make everyone around you miserable as well (to some extent, obviously everyone is responsible for their own feelings, etc etc), because 1. you are suffering and this makes them sad; 2. you are unable to fulfill your usual responsibilities which at best inconveniences others and at worst seriously harms them; and 3. you are suffering, which makes you unpleasant to be around. This is true of any illness though.

The difference with the suffering of mental illness from a physical illness is that 1. it is even less quantifiable than physical illness (with no visible symptoms or objective criteria to even demonstrate its existence) and 2. there is no effective treatment. If you are in terrible physical pain, there is a wide variety of amazingly effective drugs (thanks epidurals for making labor almost pain-free!); if you are in terrible emotional or psychological pain, people tend to recommend stuff like diet changes, getting more rest, or "relaxing". I have given birth, had appendicitis, and had multiple episodes of kidney stones, which are supposed to all be quite physically painful, and there is no question in my mind that the pain I felt from all of these, while certainly bad, was nowhere near the level of suffering I have felt from my mental illness.

Connected to the lack of effective treatment (at least in the short term/crisis mode) is the generally abysmal state of mental health care. Singapore does not win any awards in this regard (our insurance, as is quite typical here, does not even cover any form of mental health care, including drugs), but as a modern, first world country and destination for medical tourism does have a number of specialists, specialized drugs and the like. I am highly literate, well able to advocate for myself and pursue the best care, and have enough money to afford whatever care is necessary, and it still is a struggle to get treatment even of a minimally effective level. Part of the problem is that the vetting of mental health professionals is spotty, in that many of them, while possessing the proper academic credentials, have very poor people skills (which is a BIG problem when treatment relies on the provider's relationship with the patient).

Couple that with the very real stigma of mental illlness (I always have to debate how much to tell people), and it makes having mental problems absolutely exhausting. I absolutely understand why so many people do not treat theirs (in my opinion, a majority of the world's population would benefit from the right drugs and/or therapy): it is very expensive, time consuming and not very gratifying.

I have been spending a lot of my time (and money) on searching for the right drug combination, which among other things has made me gain around 20 pounds. This is in addition to attending therapy sessions twice a week. I think I am finally starting to see some progress, and have tentatively found the right drug combination, but it is heartbreakingly slow and so frustrating.I suppose I should be grateful that I have the time and resources to pursue all avenues though, and focus on the positives in my situation rather than on how I would like things to be different.

The Will to Destruction

I haven't always (or even usually) been depressed, but it has been a continuing theme in my life. Being depressed is really awful (duh, the definition of depression is basically feeling terrible) but one of the strange things about it is how seductive depression can be.

Often when I'm depressed, I find myself doing things which I know will make things worse: and the very reason I do them is because they will make it worse. The depression becomes a kind of living being, ensuring its own survival by advising and tempting me into various destructive and self-destructive actions (like starting fights with B for no reason, or shirking my responsibilities). Although I know what I should do in order to feel better, it does not appeal to me. I would much rather dig myself deeper into the pit of despair, and doing the opposite takes an immense amount of willpower.

There is something very pleasurable in destruction, even if what you are destroying is yourself. It must be an innate human tendency, because it's one of the first things young children do, as soon as they are mobile in fact. And once you have begun the destructive process, it seems not just easier but fated to continue (the whole "Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb" argument).

Here's Dostoevsky's Underground Man on the subject (if you haven't read Notes from Underground, you should: it's both short and amazing):

I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last—into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one’s own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into. 

I think this sort of thought process is behind most mental disorders (addiction, eating disorders, anxiety, etc). That's why punitive approaches never work (boot camp for teens, "shaking you out of it", jail time, shaming, aversion techniques): they are just playing into the already acute sense of failure and degradation (and indeed might be just what sufferers are trying to obtain).

The only way out is love and forgiveness, of oneself and of others.

R Gets a Haircut

R is a little dubious

R's hair was starting to get really long, which meant that I had to brush/comb it extensively every day. She hated this SO much, and would inevitably howl with rage or cry in pain (I tried every gentle technique possible, but apparently her scalp is very sensitive? or more likely, just the idea of possible pain was enough to upset her). It was no fun for either of us, so I decided the time had come for her first hair cut.

Dora haze

B has always hated haircuts (at one childhood visit he punched the barber hard in the stomach, enough to wind him), and I worried R might have inherited the tendency. So I took her to the children's specialty salon (haircuts include a balloon, candy and viewing of Dora the Explorer) even though it was kind of pricey at $18 per cut (which seems like a lot for a two-year-old). It was surprisingly emotional for me (because usually I am completely unsentimental). It seemed like the official end of baby R: now she's a big girl, with haircuts and everything.

Almost done!

She cooperated beautifully so I bought her a toy as a reward. (She selected a wedding toy, with bride, groom, priest and photographer: we got it because it's what she wanted but it gave me a pang for being so stereotypical and regressive. Guess I will have to get over myself.) Then we went out for brunch: R got French toast.

New hair!

 In other news, I am feeling considerably better and much more able to cope with life. As with the other times I've started medication after being depressed, my main reaction is, "Why didn't I do this earlier???" For which there is no good answer, except that depressed people are not known for their critical thinking skills or logical thinking patterns.

Drugging Myself

Another blogging hiatus, thanks to my continuing depression. Whenever I am depressed, I tend to withdraw from all activity (especially of the social sort) in favor of laying around thinking about death, aimlessly skimming stupid articles, and playing game after game of Memory. I finally had to bite the bullet and go on Zoloft. 

I am hugely in favor of psychotropic drugs: in fact, I often wonder if the entire population shouldn't take them in one form or another (better living through chemistry! can't wait for the pill revolution). Certainly I would have advised anyone else in my situation to get on them ASAP. 

Despite my theories, I am not consistent and was extremely reluctant to get medicated. It seemed like a personal failure somehow (I felt unreasonably pleased with myself for being drug-free). But in the end, I was not improving and my depression was negatively impacting my family, and B in particular (I was pretty successful in putting on a front for R: but this meant all the accumulated drama got dumped on B as soon as she was sleeping). So off I went to the psychiatrist (of which there are only about 20 in the entire country of Singapore, the culture here is strongly biased against all forms of mental health treatment).

I started a week ago and am now starting to feel considerably better. I expect in a few more weeks I will be almost back to normal (historically, SSRIs have always been quite effective for me).

Why the Irregular Posting

I haven't been writing much, partly because my laptop broke (R opened the door to the study, got a chair from the other room, and fetched my laptop off of the desk: but then she dropped it; obviously none of this was with my knowledge. Reason #500 a silent toddler is ominous.), and partly because I've felt really depressed lately.

I don't have a good reason: nothing bad has happened. Actually I feel incredibly guilty about being depressed, because my life is pretty posh. I don't have to work, we have enough money for all necessities plus plenty of extras, my husband is kind, supportive and loves me, my child is even-tempered, happy and healthy...My typical day consists of hanging out with my daughter doing fun activities or seeing our friends, various chores and light housework (B even does almost all the cooking), and between 5-6 hours of child free time (since R takes a 2-3 hour nap, and goes to bed at least three hours before I do). Being depressed in this situation just seems whiny.

I have lots of experience with being depressed though, so I know that logic (or guilt) are of no use in this situation. Instead of chastising myself for being ungrateful and spoiled, I need to focus on proper self-care and mental hygiene. This means sleeping better (going to bed earlier, for example), exercising far more, improving my diet, and being more careful to engage in productive/social activities only. Which means I have to cut down Internet time a lot, it being my time-waster of choice. (Blog posting usually makes me feel productive though, so I can do it if I don't get sucked in to reading numerous sites at the same time.)

Hopefully I will feel better soon and then can go back to eating gummies on the regular and wasting hours reading stupid celebrity gossip.

C.S. Lewis on Loving Yourself

Lately I've been in a funk, feeling worn out, unenthusiastic about life and reluctant to do any of my responsibilities. I was thinking that maybe I should take a vacation, or schedule several hours of alone me-time, or get a babysitter and do something just with B, when I realized what I really wanted was a vacation from myself. I am tired of listening to my own thoughts, of watching myself do things that are a bad idea (like not exercising enough, or eating gummies for dinner), and of all my annoying qualities.

C.S. Lewis wrote on self love thusly:

For a long time I used to think this a silly, straw-splitting distinction: how could you hate what a man did and not hate the man? But years later it occurred to me that there was one man to whom I had been doing this all my life—namely myself. However much I might dislike my own cowardice or conceit or greed, I went on loving myself. There had never been the slightest difficulty about it. In fact the very reason why I hated these things was that I loved the man. Just because I loved myself, I was sorry to find that I was the sort of man who did those things.

I remember reading this (in Mere Christianity, which is a very interesting book even if you aren't religious) and wondering about it then, because I don't feel this way. I do have difficulty in loving myself, especially when I'm engaging in tiresome behavior. My self-love is conditional: present if I'm pleased with my behavior, but vanishing when things aren't going well. Instead, I often feel like I am that annoying coworker who sits next door: you have to be polite and accomplish tasks together, but you don't like or respect them, or even feel any positive emotion towards them. It's not that you actively hate them, but it's maddening that you can't escape.

I wonder if I am a unusually psychologically ill-balanced person, or if Lewis just has a really good opinion of himself.

Feeling Sad Lately

I have been struggling the last few days with feeling sad. This isn't new: I have experienced recurrent bouts of depression since I hit puberty. As I've gotten older, they have diminished markedly in both length and intensity, but it is still something I occasionally suffer through.

Depression is not something that makes rational sense. While usually there is some sort of trigger for a mini-depressive bout (a marital fight, bad news, sickness, a life disappointment, stress), often triggers will happen and I won't get depressed. And the severity of the trigger isn't really correlated to the severity of the depressive episode. It's more like catching a cold: sometimes you know how you got it, but usually it's just random.

Once you have become depressed, rationality has definitely left the building. Everything is now filtered through the greyish haze and lack of all energy, hope or initiative which characterizes this mental state. It also tends to be self-perpetuating: often I actively seek to prolong my stay in depression's netherworld, by refusing to do things which might improve my mood (like exercise, or seeing people), and attempting to put a negative spin on anything positive that might occur (like saying "People are only nice to me because they feel sorry for me. I must be such a loser."). The only properly functioning section of my brain is the one which perceives potential problems or downsides: every little bad possibility appears in my brain with great clarity and insight.

Because depression isn't rational, using logic to fight it doesn't work. Instead, I find the only solutions are 1) distraction (because my brain can't dwell on everything bad if it is busy with some other task); 2) proper self-care (getting enough exercise, sleep, healthy food and positive social interaction); and 3) constant self reminders that being depressed is just an emotion, and like all emotions, will change soon (since one of the worst things about being depressed is that you feel it has always been, and will always be, this way).

Luckily (?), I am fairly moody, so while my emotions can be very intense, leaving me in tears curled up in bed telling B I wish I was dead, in a few hours or days, I feel completely differently, and am again ready to face the world with courage and optimism.

I like remembering this song at times like this.

Feeling Like a Cockroach

I struggled with depression for years. Oddly enough, since I got pregnant, and in particular since I gave birth, my moods have markedly improved. In particular, my lows are no longer as low, and last for a much shorter time. However, I still do get very sad/gloomy from time to time, and when feeling this way will spin down into the vortex of low self-esteem, self-hatred and constant internal berating (the depressed Grace voice is incredibly mean and abusive to the other parts of Grace). In the last couple days, I have been feeling pretty down for a variety of reasons, partly because I am not feeling perfectly well, partly because it's being raining a lot, partly because I can't control my temper well.

When I am really sad, I will say that I feel like a cockroach, and in my more down moments will claim to be a cockroach, channeling poor Gregor Samsa I suppose. B pointed out today that indeed I actually transform  myself: I start dressing sloppily in dark colors (black or dark brown) and don't regularly groom myself; stop cleaning the house, which means it quickly becomes a pigsty and uncomfortable to be in; stop eating regular meals, preferring to eat Oreos or bread covered with just mayonnaise at odd times and in odd places (ie not at the table); and darken the house by not turning on lights or opening shades (in general I love light and keep the house as bright as possible). The natural endpoint to this is me in bed, overweight and bloated, surrounded by crumbs and junk food packages, dressed in dirty black sweats, in a dark and filthy environment: in fact, as close to a cockroach as a human can get.

It is interesting I go through this mini-transformation, because it's as if I feel compelled to physically act out my internal feelings. The good thing about it is that B can always tell how my emotional state is doing: wearing all black is a bad sign,  and when combined with a large pile of dirty dishes, he knows there is trouble. So he provided me with some psychological assistance (in moments like these, it's very handy that both his parents were mental health professionals), and now the house is clean and I am wearing bright blue.

Coming to Terms with Being Different

I am the oldest of two girls (my sister is 4.5 years younger). The research on the effects of birth order on personality is pretty mixed, but if it does have an effect, older children are supposed to be bossier than younger ones (especially if they are both the same sex, perhaps). In the realm of pseudo-science, I am a Cancer (which is a cardinal=leadership sign, meaning I like to be the boss) and a Horse (notoriously a very headstrong sign, sometimes referred to as a man-eater).

Probably more relevantly, I come from a family full of strong, dominant women. While my mother would never do anything important without consulting with my father, she is also very bossy. She has an opinion on what one should do in every circumstance (she is usually right, being smart and savvy), and is not shy about giving it. She never met a situation that she couldn't handle. My grandmother, someone who left home at 16 to go work in a munitions factory in Wyoming, where she knew no one, a former "Rosie the Riveter" and a formidable raconteur was even more tough, domineering and opinionated. My grandfather liked this about her, perhaps because his mother was exactly the same. The family joke about her was that one day, she kept giving so many directions to her husband on how he should drive the car that my grandfather finally said, "Mom, why don't you just let Dad alone?" She turned around in her seat and asked him, "Who's driving this car, anyway?"

As a little girl, when I pretended to be a princess, this meant I went on many adventures: saving the world, fighting evildoers, and rescuing the prince. It never occurred to me that princesses are typically supposed to spend their time dressing up and waiting to be rescued. Girls seemed so obviously superior that it was only natural boys needed their assistance. I was also a leader among my friends, deciding what games to play and how to play them, and an enthusiastic student in the classroom, the first to volunteer an answer or for a task.

However, as I grew older my natural enjoyment in being in charge disappeared. I discovered that virtually everyone thought girls should be pretty, demure, and submissive, and that acting differently led to criticism and disapproval. I wanted other people to like me, and the way to do this seemed to be to toe the societal line. But doing so, and denying my natural tendencies and personality, contributed to my falling into a deep depression at about age 12 or 13. I felt as if who I was was unacceptable, and yet I was not very good at pretending to be someone else. I lost the early confidence I had enjoyed in myself and my abilities, and became afraid to express my true self.

Now that I am in my early thirties, I am only starting to come to terms with my real personality and try to accept myself for who I am. I have strong opinions, enjoy being in control, and dislike being told what to do. I am not demure, enjoy reading about history and not celebrities or fashion, and am not particularly domestic (I don't like cooking, decorating, giving parties or any kind of crafts). I have to remind myself that it is okay for me to be different. I just hope that I can regain the confidence I used to have in myself.

I like this quote:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

----from A Return to Love, by Marianne Williamson.

Depression

I have struggled with depression on and off for most of my life, at least since I was in middle school. This is probably due to genetics: my mother (depression, anxiety), sister (anxiety, depression, eating disorder, alcoholism), aunts (one manic depression, anxiety, one depression, eating disorder, alcoholism, anxiety), grandmother (depression, alcoholism) and great uncle (depression, alcoholism), in fact everyone on that side of the family, have had similar problems. Actually, since I have never had a problem with drugs, alcohol, food, or much of one with anxiety I am relatively well off. But like most genetic problems, my depression isn't so simple: it's more of a tendency towards depression, which can be triggered by various life events. If I am careful and practice good habits then I am mostly just really moody.

But I am always aware of the depressive tendencies hanging out, lurking for me around a corner, and if things do not go well, then it can pounce on me and I end up crying hysterically hiding in the closet. I think Winston Churchill's description of his depression as "his black dog", which I suppose followed him around just like a faithful pet, is quite appropriate. I give my depression a persona too: grimpiwahs. The grimpiwahs are small, black, evil creatures with glowing eyes and long, pointed fingernails. They curl around my neck and whisper in my ears, or twine around my ankles like a cat and trip me up. They whisper a variety of things: advice (usually something like, "You should just kill yourself, everyone would be better off without you"), opinions, interpretations of events. They are invariably negative and critical both of me and everyone else, yet extremely seductive for some reason. When I have been really depressed, I felt like I could almost see and hear them. When I have sufficient fortitude, I can banish them if they come to visit me, but if I don't they settle for a visit and torture me just like the picture. I am not sure if everyone feels like this at times, or if I am just specially cursed by bad genes or something else.

There is quite a bit of evidence that mental illness is genetic (although also triggered by life events) and that it's also associated with high intelligence and creativity. In my case, the side of the family with the mental illness is also the side with lots of brains (most of the above mentioned relatives are extremely intelligent and have a certain charisma or panache). If so, this might explain why the genes for mental illness persist, even though it obviously impairs one's fitness.

Be that as it may, it sucks having regular grimpiwah visitors and I wish there was a way to surgically remove them from my brain and magically transform me into an even-keeled, well-balanced and easygoing individual. It must be strange to be one of those people with a naturally sunny, happy personality. I wonder what it's like: I certainly have many periods of cheerfulness and happiness and even ecstatic joy (I am very moody!) but since they almost seem like the flip side of despair I'm not sure if it's the same way consistently cheerful people feel. Perhaps someday they will invent an improved mood-altering drug and I will find out.