Staggered

Sometimes the Depression sneaks up on you.

It’s a creepy, vicious stalker. It sidles behind you at the computer desk and begins to massage cold, invisible, skeletal fingers along your temples. You rub and knead to deflect the discomfort. A nerve in your shoulder jumps and scurries to avoid the attack. You shrug it off, as yet unknowing.

Your brain begins to misfire, dragging you away from your work. You stare vacuously at the screen. Coming to, moments later, you begin your work anew. Fingertips enjoy the tactile pleasure of striking individual keys. The smart, satisfying click of each button is an encouragement to keep typing. You rub the shiny squares lightly as you process your thoughts. You chance a glance to the right, where a hefty and volatile to-do list urgently beckons. It begs you to make just one check-mark in its neatly printed boxes.

You panic. Breathing heavily, you glance about without focusing on any specific point or object in the desk nook. Your thoughts race, wander, imagine, deflect an oncoming fear. Short, sturdy fingernails find a home piercing the fleshy bits of your palms. The pain allows you to focus and regain your composure. You improve your posture, tap the keys quickly and with purpose. As you sit tall and high, you glance over your right shoulder as if to confirm that nothing lurks behind you.

But the beast’s claws are still able to clamp, vise-like around your throat. You swallow against the building pressure, working your throat muscles around the new, mysterious mass that has taken up an esophageal residence. Your stomach tenses, and your lip trembles as the realization dawns: the Depression has arrived.

Its weight settles about your shoulders and drags you to the cool tile floor. It’s comforting to have the ground hold you up as the tears fall.