Remembering David Foster Wallace
David Foster Wallace, the brilliant writer who gave us “Girl With Curious Hair,” died yesterday. He was 46.
A little over ten years ago I lived with a roommate, a person with such a superiority complex that she made fun of every musician I liked and every book I owned. I returned home one day to find her sprawled out on our ugly green sofa with my copy of Girl With Curious Hair. She looked up at me with her eyes sort of glossed over and said, “This is the first time I’ve ever read anything that describes life EXACTLY.”
There aren’t too many writers I admire more than David Foster Wallace. This evening, as I turned on my computer and I spotted his name on the news tab on Yahoo’s homepage, I couldn’t believe what I had read.
Depression is such a misunderstood disease. I’ve always felt that it should be treated like any other illness. My husband’s coworker has just been diagnosed with lymphoma and she has the complete support of her friends and family. Her bosses have moved her into a cleaner office so that her immune system isn’t compromised. Her coworkers have taken on a lot of her work load so that she has more energy to recover. People should take a depression diagnosis just as seriously.
If you are depressed, please get help. If you know someone who is depressed, please know that they need help, because they do, even if they turn you away. Please don’t turn your back on them. Tell them they are not alone. More importantly, tell them you love them. Take them to a movie. And if they don’t want to get out of bed to go to a movie, bring a television set and VCR to their college dorm room and sit with them through a really stupid science fiction movie. That’s what someone did for me and it has made all the difference.
Now go hug someone and take a walk in the rain just because you can. Life is good.
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