They were wrong.

If I was manic-depressive instead of just depressed, at least I would have had the occasional bouts of euphoria. If I was manic-depressive and extraordinarily talented, I would have had the euphoria and a published book before I stuck my head in an oven like Sylvia Plath. But being a garden variety sad sack, I was stuck with a half-empty glass (non-alcoholic, to boot) and a world teeming with morons, losers and crapheads.

I could have held out for spiritual rebirth or a good Amana oven, I suppose. Fortunately, Eli Lilly delivered before God or suicide.

People are once again allowed to share the Earth with me. I'm a little less inclined to swear, sob or scream uncontrollably because I got off on the wrong freeway exit. One or two Prozac a day is the chemical equivalent of my beloved chenille throw and a hot cup of soup on a rainy day. It is the sense of comfort replacing almost a lifetime of dread. And glory be, my brain works again. I can now read a menu without bursting into tears over the pressure of having to make a decision.

Over the past 13 years, I've been subjected to numerous "success" stories from self-help junkies. The screed runs roughly like this: A wisely spiritual person is experiencing a profoundly dark night of the soul. In desperation, the person reaches out to a health care professional, who foolishly or cavalierly diagnoses the problem as depression and prescribes Prozac. The person takes it, then feels awful for feeling better because of a chemical. He or she quits the drug, ends up feeling like shit, but revels in the triumphant decision to "face it down."

I don't get it.

Perhaps, in the absence of dragons to slay and fierce carnivores to hunt, facing down a chemical imbalance is as close as this generation will get to doing battle with frightening creatures -- seen or unseen. Well, call me a spiritual fraidy-cat, but I'll choose the chenille throw over the demons, not to mention the black hole of hopelessness.

While I'd prefer to avoid looking like Kermit the Frog snagging houseflies, I'll take brain damage or a shriveled liver over life without Prozac. Feeling bad is neither spiritual nor character building. It's just bad. It's certainly worse than feeling good or even feeling nothing at all.