Listening to Prosac? Make me Laugh!
There used to be a time when you could be a real fucking hardass depressive or anxious mess and you could turn it into a good time.
The true antidote to disastrous mental health was humor. Some people figured out that physical exercise helped. But really, humor always won the race.
You could find a clever way to complain about your dark abyss, and you sort of had to, because no one would put up with your whining miserable self loathing sun-starved hopeless ass otherwise. You had to get creative if you were going to be useful company. So you dug into the darkest reaches, took one good look at those miserable crags, and you figured, "I better turn this into an amusement park or I'm going to die alone on these sharp, empty rocks."
Anxious? That was easy. You just ran around screaming, "I'm a mess! I'm a mess! Let me tell you about _______." And you'd insert your latest neurotic tale and flap your fucking arms up and down and everyone had a good time at your expense. If you had a sense of proportion that is, and knew when to bring down the curtain.
We have all died on the rock of productivity and normative behavior. We want and want.
It was more fun when people were fucked up and sang about it.