I tend to advise friends and family not to read too much philosophy (with my tongue only partially in-cheek), because indeed it offers little practical solace to look behind certain curtains. I could never resist diligently seeking truth though, having been brought up under a shroud of poison secrecies, and when I really started getting into Deleuze and Baudrillard especially, my brain lit up with so much recognition it was as if it represented many lifescapes of repressed memory, things that had been on ice in what comprises my subsconscious for ages. Now that it's memetically welded to my conscious awareness I've no way to unsee any of it.

I'm quite sure it beats most other alternatives, in terms of other hazardous cognitive reality that might have appended itself to my psyche, and was probably an unavoidable destiny of an understanding for me personally to arrive at.. but it's lonely information indeed. How I envy even the moderately blissful.