Heh, so true. Above Sherlock notes that at the happiest point of my life, my mother was telling me that I was clearly clinically depressed. No matter how many times I tried to explain that I was living alone and not going out with friends anymore because spending my time on art actually satisfied me, unlike spending it on tedious social obligations, she kept telling me how much Prozac helped her and that I should try it.

(Having now met my family, my Watson is not at all surprised that I turned out so... Sherlockian. Sometimes family is an explanation rather than a solution for one's issues.)