I have recently been discussing with my therapist about this very issue, and she said that my case was slightly unusual. Whereas most people with depression are trying to fill up a metaphorical cup, it seems that my cup has a hole at the bottom of it, so any of the things that I try to fill it with are here one day and gone the next. In a sense, any joy that I do get from activity is brief when it comes to having to face the music of my own mind.

I’m trying my best by going to therapy to figure this out, but to be honest, I think that my illness is such an integral part of me that it might not ever go away.  It seems that even when I am happy briefly, it has  a weighted quality to it. It’s hard to explain in words, but that’s what I feel.

So far I’ve been coping by doing some activities that I used to do as a kid, mainly reading and writing poetry and stories. Being able to express the pain I feel inside of me through the use of stories and words is strangely liberating. I can’t say that my stories will bring me much success, but they do help me deal with some incredibly dark images that I have in my head.