I think that by ignoring it, or by willing myself into not having it, I figured that I wouldn't actually have it. At 37, I'm finally admitting to myself. I have depression. I think it affects people differently. The way that it affects me is like a big, wet blanket. I get a spark, I can even get a small fire burning, and I start to generate a little energy. Things start to feel good, feel different. I get some energy, and I can feel it within myself. There's no real outward appearance of this fire, but I start to feel it. Then, out of the dark, a big wet blanket smothers my fire. The only evidence that there ever was a fire is the small amount of smoke from my previously burning fire. I feel sick. Everything feels like a mountain to climb. Every task seems like the biggest thing I've ever done. Simple stuff like getting up, driving to work, driving home, opening my email, it all seems impossibly large. This doesn't even touch on the things I'm actually trying to accomplish that are hard, that do require persistence and effort; things like being healthy, eating healthy, training, traveling, planning photo shoots, writing and recording music, and performing. So I pick up, and I start again. It's hard though. Very hard. I have typically attributed it to some force, typically unfair. This has made me feel like the universe wasn't fair, and that I'm meant to live this way. It has made me mad at unseen, and often times I'll admit, imaginary forces. It's also made me angry at tangible objects and people as well. I feel like, that by admitting I suffer from depression, this helps me to deal with it better. I can think of it in terms of something with an end point. It's recurring, but it's also temporary. It's something I can manage, something I can do something about. Something I can understand, as opposed to some unseen force in the universe. Like buds on a branch, waiting for winter to pass. They will bud again. Not dormant forever, just for a season.