Down. I am just...down. And while I'm down I know that sometime in the hopefully-not-too-distant future I'll be up again, or at least even. And when I'm there, I'll look back on here and say things like, "If I would've stuck with my exercise routine, that would've helped," or "I forgot to take my pills on that camping trip and I think it threw me," or "when I started drinking 4 glasses of wine a night I should've seen that as a sign; I should've known I was heading into a spiral."

The thing is I did know. But till you recognize the spiral you're usually too far into it to pull up.

I don't really want to, either. Pull up, I mean. This is what really gets me - really gets to me - about Depression. Not 'depression' but 'Depression' - this is how the character of Jeanine interacts with the character of Depression in the play that is my lie. I know we'll have it out but honestly there is something inside of me that just...requires that I see it through to rock bottom. Like the tragically, mythically unhappy housewife that can't bring herself to leave because things "just aren't that bad yet." And of course there's the children. (Not the real children; I'm referring to the children that the characters Jeanine and Depression share.) I love the children and if I leave, I have to leave them: Martyrdom. Booze (a nice name for a girl?) Identity. And the beautiful Excuse for those things at which I fail for lack of trying because - lucky me - ambivalence is a classic symptom of depression. ('depression,' not 'Depression')

So I don't 'pull up' - I really prefer to ride it out to the bitter end. For one, it makes a much more believable excuse that way. A much better crutch. Can you really claim to be struggling because of your depression if you never hit a slump, ride a low or go on a binge?

It's part of me. It seems...somehow...dishonest, I guess, to try to disown it. I'm so many things - mother, wife, daughter, friend, employee - and woman with depression. This was the case before I started the blog, though I suspect that...cements it, a bit. And lucky me I can claim, with some honesty too, that battling the stigma of depression is important enough to me to continue with the blog anyway. Throw a little more honesty at it, though, and it's likely just the self-absorbed ramblings of an egomaniac that likes to pretend that people connect with what she has to say.

I see this in my son - this need to hit rock bottom. It's an anxiety thing for him. For example, he's currently obsessed with Lego Star Wars on the Wii. When I way 'obsessed' I mean, quite clinically, 'engaging in obsessive behavior'. So we only play Wii on the weekends and after a warning or two about keeping our cool (yelling, throwing the remote, etc) we lose the Wii for the day. Funny thing is anytime you even glance at the kid he asks, in a freaked-out, anxiety-ridden voice, "Did I lose the Wii?" This goes on for quite awhile until he actually loses theWii. Then, following a short tantrum - no more anxiety. It's gone. Because worrying about losing the Wii is worse than actually losing the Wii. He needs to hit rock bottom.

So I am with my spirals. I almost welcome them because I've been worrying - when's my next Bout going to show up? When will Depression and Jeanine have it out again? and when it shows up...well, I don't have to wonder anymore. And that, honestly, is a bit of a relief.

And, since I'm being brutally, sadistically, humiliatingly honest here - come on. I loves me some melancholy. It so plays into this "oh I'm such a misunderstood genius" lie I like to tell myself. Virginia Wolfe, Sylvia Plath and me. We're quite a bunch. Imagine what havoc Zoloft would've wreaked on the literary world had it been available to Virginia and Sylvia! Imagine what we would've missed out on!

This is the part where I romanticize Depression. "Yes, I know he beats me when he's angry," I say, "but he really loves me and I'm usually asking for it." This is the relationship Depression and I share. Its not a disease to feel things more acutely...it's an...artistic bent. A necessity. I suffer for my art. (Really, dear reader, you're supposed t laugh out loud at that.)

So, bring on the spiral, though the timing sucks. (When is a good time, really, for a Bout?) It makes me feel...honest. Real. Flawed and Human and Genuine. What would I be, really, without it? Is it possible I've become addicted to Depression?