Humans are natural skeptics. Hard evidence is always favored over hearsay.
The problem is, not everything is quantifiable. However empirical evidence (say, those bloody finger tips of mine) remains both highly evocative and generally not open to question.
If I tell you that I am depressed, what you may imagine is likely far more vague and nebulous than my actual experience.
Being sad, for months on end, is like sleeping on dirty sheets. Drinking from a grimy glass. Looking through a filmy window.
Sadness without end is, to my mind, far worse than any physical ailment. Pain can be controlled–psychic agony only modulated or dulled, and generally done in such a way (antidepressants) that not only the edge but the gloss goes off of every interaction.
My hands still hurt. My tongue too. And my creatinine kinase remains elevated. Pretty damn sure my cancer is still there, as is the pandemic. My car has almost 180,000 miles on it and I still haven’t paid last year’s taxes. I have a few nagging worries. The same ones I had last week plus some. But I also have a little spot of light behind my eyes. A glint, a gleam. A safe, well lighted space.