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in the absence of hope we must still struggle to survive, and so we do—by the skin of our teeth.
the pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne.
“Brainstorm,” for instance, has unfortunately been preempted to describe, somewhat jocularly, intellectual inspiration. But something along these lines is needed. Told that someone’s mood disorder has evolved into a storm—a veritable howling tempest in the brain, which is indeed what a clinical depression resembles like nothing else—even the uninformed layman might display sympathy rather than the standard reaction that “depression” evokes, something akin to “So what?” or “You’ll pull out of it” or “We all have bad days.”
Loss in all of its manifestations is the touchstone of depression—in the progress of the disease and, most likely, in its origin.
It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul.
In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself in a dark wood, For I had lost the right path.
And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars.
