For the past three days I have been bested by a wicked stomach virus. My head has been pounding, I've been sweating like an Olympian, and I've excreted more fluids from my body than I knew I produced. While it's slightly improper to reveal such intimate details of one's illness, ultimately I type without fear of discrimination because I know I'm in good company. Because like it or not, we are human, we have stomachs, and we are prone to ailments.
But what if I told you I've spent the past three days bed-ridden with depression? What if I said my thoughts moved so rapidly in my head that it pounded? That I felt so anxious I vomited? Well that lowers the tone of the conversation, doesn't it?