If it bothers you, just scroll past it...

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
And all I can do is just pour some tea for two
and speak my point of view
But it's not sane, It's not sane

With only a couple of exceptions, all my closest friends are people I have met since moving out of home. From the 18 months in Elsternwick with Suz and Rachel, to the years spent in Canning street, to the house in North Melbourne, I've shared a lot of good memories with people I may never have met, were circumstances different. Most of the people that I really "know" wandered into my life over the past six years or so.

Unfortunately, the blackest few years of my life have also happened in that time, and I'm just not sure how much good it will do to keep ignoring them. I've dropped out of contact with current friends for months on end, and I'm generally pretty terrible at managing to keep in touch with old ones. Often, it's just a lack of time and energy to go seeking people out. Sometimes, though, I disappear for different reasons.

See, I've had problems with the capital-D version of depression for about four years now. It lurks back there, coiled up around my spine and in the base of my chest. I've never been sure whether I'm getting better at concealing it, or if I just avoid people when things aren't going so well. Either way, I don't expect other people to notice - it's something that I fight on my own. When it's at its worst, it can drag me down for months at a time. The most dangerous time is never at the bottom of the pit, though - crushed under it, there's no energy to do anything at all. On the way back up, you still remember what it was like down there. That turning point, before you remember why you're still going, but after you have the energy to do things you ought to regret... that's the time to tread carefully.

Most of 2001 is a year that I'd happily unravel, unpicking it from my life. The actions of a few perceptive friends probably kept me here, stepping in to offer help that I hadn't thought to ask for. By the time they saw what was happening, I doubt I had any idea how to pick myself back up again. Life got worse before it got better, but eventually I learned how to hide things more effectively. To this day, I'm still not sure which side counts that as a victory...

Recently I've found myself looking around, and wondering why things don't feel as great as they ought to. What right have I to not be happy with my lot? After all, plenty of people have things far worse. The problem is that depression doesn't pack up and leave, only to return later. It's a troublesome flatmate that you have no choice about living with, and like it or not you have to make some compromises.

"Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer," they say. It's a dirty fight, and neither side pulls their punches. This enemy lives in my head, and I know more about it than anyone else. I may never beat it, but I can beat it back down into a corner - after all, I've had plenty of practice. I know that corner entirely too well.