I'm wrapped in the depths of these deeds that have made me
I can't bring a sound from my head though I try
I can't seem to find my way up from the basement
A demon holds my place on earth 'till I die

-- Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby

This is going to be one of those posts that justifies/explains my stupid quasi-anonymity.

I really hate talking to most people about depression – the disease in general, mine in particular. And honestly, the worst ones are not the dismissive buffoons who "don't believe in" depression. It's my friends, the really sympathetic and supportive ones who inevitably meet any statement about being depressed with some variety of the same question: "About what?" About what?! Not about anything. I've barely left my house in the last 3 days; this afternoon I sat on my hardwood living room floor crying over nothing. And honestly, more often than not I just feel . . . nothing. Numb. "What are you depressed about?" my ass.

Okay, I get why that seems like a reasonable response. But at the same time . . . would anyone ask a cancer patient why she was in pain?