I’ve personally not truly ever suffered from depression, but I have many friends that do.
Understanding how it feels to suffer from this condition is something that I’ve always struggled with, but I found a really interesting article which seems to explain what it’s like in a way I can understand and appreciate.
The article includes the following;
“There’s a fungus that infects ants. When the ant eats the fungus, it takes over the ant’s brain and body. It makes the ant go to the tallest blade of grass it can find. It makes the ant leave the safety of it’s nest. Leave the security of the other ants. Ignore all desire for food or drink. All that matters is getting to the top of the blade of grass. And then the fungus kills it there. This is depression.”
The article then goes on
“Depression is living with a brain that, a lot of the time, isn’t your own. Your brain will make you know things about yourself, horrible things that become hard to live with. Your brain will cut off everything a person needs for emotional survival; any kind of happiness, pleasure or joy will be stripped from you. It will become physically difficult to move, impossible to ask for help, and you’ll make decisions that, in hindsight, made no sense other than to make your life actively worse.”
I hope you find this article as useful as I did.
Original Source: – www.smutbuttons.com
poly pride 
I have had an on-going battle with depression since I was about eight. That was sixty years ago; I wasn’t diagnosed, or “treated,” but I distinctly recall sitting in front of the television, shortly after my eighth birthday, and contemplating my lot. My parents’ uniform response to anything that thy perceived as misbehavior on my was a slap at the least, or a beating if I protested. School was a nightmarish prison where the bullies were, and then as now, no-one did much about them. I felt alone and I was alone. My mother would tell me that she loved me; and I would ask why she beat me if she did. She’d reply that it was for my own good. When I would press her to explain how, it inevitably lead to another beating. That’s the way that blue-collar people treated their kids back then. So, no wonder that I had a less-than congenial outlook on life, my life in particular.
I gave up on school (American public) when I was about ten. I wasn’t being taught anything new and found it easier to teach myself. This lead to failure marks on the report cards and lots and lots of shit. I’d get told, “You’re a big boy now, it’s time to buckle down and study.” At the same time, if I wanted to take a bus to a nearby town to visit a bookstore, I’d get told I was too young. One day when I was twelve, she puled that crap on me and I told her that I was also too young to buckle down and study. I took her violence quietly, without crying, and asked her if she was finished. More hitting ensued. Finally, with my back to the wall, she swung – and I ducked. Her knuckles made a lot satisfying crack against the wall and I laughed at her. She would have done more, but I let my dog out of my room and she bit the old girl a number of times. When my father came home, she was all over him about me, only – for once! – his reddening face turned on HER. He told me to go to my room and then tore into her for badgering him as soon as he came in the door. To me, this was my first victory over depression and depressing circumstances.
But the stain was there. Being bi in the 1960s was not an option for a kid. I found marijuana as an excellent solace; it helped me to think things through when times got rough – and they always did. I could go on and on and on……..
Two things saved me. Sara’s unconditional love; and our exploration of that love with MDMA. I’d said, we do not use lightly.
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