Me, myself and sigh.

Antidepressants are the new black. It seems that most the people I know these days are on antidepressants. Those who aren't, should be. It has become socially acceptable to talk about your depression and medications: "Well, I was on Prozac, but now I'm on Zoloft and I'm so happy right now," (or, maybe it's the ecstasy and two lines of speed you just had, now get away from me you cheery freak). Every fashionista has some story about the meds they've taken, the depths of despair they've reached or the therapist who is changing their life. It's also become acceptable to talk about other people's mood disorders: "And Tiffany, she's on Zoloft too, but her therapist isn't as good as mine, she's a woman and wears really bad shoes."

I could say that depression is the new black, except that there's nothing new about depression's association with blackness. Churchill had his back dog. Many have had black thunderclouds. Many feel blue. I don't feel blue, myself. Sometimes I feel grey, or rotting, or numb, but not blue. Blue makes me happy; it's my favourite colour.