Me and my shadow

My depression and I haven't been getting along very well lately. I thought we'd kind of had things worked out, but she's unpredictable that way.

You haven't met her, you say? Well, that's because I try to leave her at home. Because not only is she unpredictable, she's a pain in the ass.

She's a worst-case-scenario thinker. And she dwells. Plus, she's critical. Not of everyone. Just me. She has a knack for finding that one fault -- the mistake I made, the dumb thing I said, the task that didn't get done -- in an otherwise perfectly pleasant day, and then holding on tight to it and waving it around. Like a toddler with a big sucker. Hey, look it! Look it!

The spin she puts on everything is counterclockwise.

HER: You know, even if you do find an agent and a publisher, very few people actually make a living as novelists these days. In fact, I read that unless your last name is Rowling, King or Patterson -- or the book you're writing has the working title "Twelve Shades of Teal" -- you're statistically more likely to have "state lottery" listed as your source of income on your tax return.

ME: Well, shoot, if I can't be a writer, I'd be happy to make my living as a lottery winner.

HER: Yeah, except studies show lottery winners aren't all that happy. And chances are still better you'll be hit by a bus.

At least once a week she'll keep me up all night, only to hound me twenty times the next day with how tired she is. Sometimes she eats too much. Sometimes she drinks too much. Most of the time she doesn't want to do anything at all. Occasionally she stands in the shower -- completely inert -- until the hot water runs out. She can't make decisions.

I haven't known her long, only a few years. And her strength waxes and wanes. She has the ability to cloak me. But I've learned some tricks for fighting her off. With any luck, I'll soon be able to get her behind me again. And I'll try to keep my face to the sun.