I believe most definitions of depression don’t do it justice.  For me it is a pervasive psychic pain, so inhumane that at its worse, I curl up into a tight ball to escape it, but there is no contraction powerful enough to crush it.  Fortunately, I spend only about 3% of my time there, although at some points in my life it has been much more.  Approximately, another 15% of the time the pain mixes so intimately with anxiety, I can’t stop moving, but I can’t accomplish anything either. I can’t sit down I can’t focus, it’s as though my psyche has jumped up and is trying to escape the pain by running and hiding from it inside myself.  As you can see it’s totally an inside job.  At some point I will reach the shuffling stage, where I drag myself around trying to fix everything, on the exterior, I believe is deteriorating or out of control, another 15% of the possibility of enjoying life -vanished.  After a cycle of this or some combination anhedonia is a relief, although it holds no joy or comfort.  It is a step up out of the morass, where I can turn back into the robotic producer of results, provider of services, caretaker, organizer, teacher, all those things that make me look “normal” most of the time.  Normal, take a shower, put on my makeup, dressed up and smile-as normal as I get, but not very rewarding.  Who lives to look good?  At this point, I guess I do, about 65% of the time.  So, if you’re adding we’ve covered 98% of the terrain of my life.  Of course, if that’s all there was, I would only have a depressive type diagnosis, however, my behavior the other 2% of the time, has earned me a bipolar diagnosis. That’s when I’m energized, alarmingly social and behaving in a manner that would shock my mother, to say the least.  In fact, I’ve been known to shock myself.  Although I put myself in some extremely dangerous situations, during these forays into the other world, it’s the anhedonia that’s killing me. Overdosing on nothingness with no hope of escape. More meds please.  Diane