Constant innovation and movement have wrought dislocation and alienation, amplifying the anxiety of mortal existence.
Depression means englobement in a world without hope, even more unrelenting and unrelieved than Dante’s passage through hell or the post-apocalyptic world of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
There is a temptation among Catholics to explain away depression as if there were no medical issue involved — simply a spiritual failure on the part of the sufferer.
The bourgeoisifying marginalization of suffering is a flight from solidarity; it is the pretense that life is really about being healthy, successful, beautiful, rich, young, independent.
Love means exposure to the pain of separation. Loved ones decline and die. We never love well enough. We are never loved well enough.
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