And it isn't like all depressions are the same. I've had the kind when you cannot move, cannot sleep, cannot get out of bed, and thinking is a difficult, painful process. The barely walking undead. I've also had the "closing down around you" kind, where your whole life and being sort of implodes. You become invisible. You talk to people and they don't even seem to be aware of you, like you're slightly out of phase with the rest of the universe; I've even started seeing myself as if I was watching over my shoulder.
And then there is Melancholy, which is like one of those "Crow" graphic novels, or a well thought out dystopia, and suffering serves a useful, even noble, purpose-as if my suffering somehow alleviates the pain of the world a little (pretty Christ-like for a Jewboy, eh?). Everything is harder to get through, but my creativity kicks in. It's like being inside Edgar Allan Poe. It's the scariest one, because a part of me doesn't want it to end; it's a glorious pain, a keening suffering joy and honor.
Snap out of THAT!
Have I said "Thank God for modern medicine" yet?
If, as so many of us here believe, TSHTF, guess what I'll miss most about civilization?