Your life is moving along fine. You've got a job, good friends, and you've paid off all your debts. Then it starts. It's like a hum that runs constantly in the background. You can ignore it at first but, after a while, it starts interfering with your sleep. A vague terror overcomes you because you know, in the back of your mind, that the cycle is beginning again and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. You fight the depression, but struggling only wears you down faster. The hum gets louder and more urgent. You become irritable from weird sleep, abuse of caffeine, and THE GODDAMN NOISE THAT WON'T LEAVE YOU ALONE. Getting out of bed for work becomes a monumental task. You become jumpy and a touch paranoid. People at work look at you funny because your performance drops without explanation. You consider seeking help, but the prospect of a life confined by mind numbing drugs is more horrifying than anything else you know. You realize you may lose your job because you can't make it in on time and when you are there you can't accomplish anything; and it doesn't seem to matter. You spiral further because you can't explain it all to your friends or family. If you try to tell people you're depressed they tell you that you've nothing to be depressed about and you should get over it... not that you talk to too many people about it. You've figured out that no amount of talking helps you feel better and any amount of talking makes others feel bad. You find your sleeping pattern all out of whack - either sleeping not at all or sleeping way too much and then unable to leave your room when you are awake. Things you should do, and don't, pile up - and unpaid bills are stacked on your desk. You shed friends and responsibilities like an October maple sheds leaves. At some point you start to think about ending things. Its about that time you decide that the hole you're in isn't too deep to climb out of - this time - so you start the rebuilding process. After several months of hard work you feel better and have all your debts paid off. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. If I had the option I think I'd rather be shot twice a year than go through this. At least that way, when people asked you what the hell was wrong with you, you could say, "I was shot." That would be a hell of a lot easier to explain. ::devoid8