The Eternal Struggle

There is a reason it is known as "fighting depression". Every day, every moment, is a battle. A depressed person feels the conflict always, every alternating mood an opportunity for the eternal enemy to engage. A wall of the mind is thrown up against these intrusive thoughts, and this barrier must be constantly reinforced, or it will crumble. There is a consciousness of choice to give into the flames of acquiescence, if only to lessen the suffering of unabridged defence. This can be in the form of escapism, indolence, frustration, or a bevy of other methods of cope.

When feeling strong, a depressed person blitzes toward the foe and smashes negativity, hardly giving a moments respite to the quietly howling opponent. Full functionality and positive emotional attunement prevail. These are, of course, fleeting feelings, but their transient novelty lends them increased power and life. It is in these lovely moments that the enemy conjures its most dastardly form, that of the dark reflected simulacrum of happiness. Without realizing, the person lets their guard down as a necessary condition of peace and ease, and falls victim to a slow, insidious ambush. The graduality of this phase masks the impending downturn.

This is not to say the defeat comes immediately following victory. You have bought yourself some time. The foe has much ground to cover, but they are approaching. The weaselly form of nagging entropy embraces you in the quiet moments. Suddenly, you find yourself disarmed, your people crying for demobilization, and your fleet given to obsolescence. The enemy, once thoroughly under control, now rises from the hinterlands to nibble at your borders.

There are many skirmishes, absolute routes, probing attacks repelled and renewed. At times you are under siege and the best hope is patience and help from outside; other times you boldly strike out at the foe, advancing deep into the hostile territory of relative calm and ease. Every revulsion of the negative toward the positive is a battle won, but this is an endless war of attrition. There exists a no man's land, fought for over and over, the trenches changing hands with remarkable alacrity, and then at once a wholesale route opens the passage for a march on Paris. Capitulation is unthinkable until it is inevitable, and you bow to forces beyond your control or comprehension and solemnly agree to unfavourable terms of long isolation and low self-esteem.

Then, as a rising phoenix, your weakness lessens and becomes a sort of strength, and the combat is renewed. Your total destruction has enabled you start again without pretension, and you have become very good at growing from seed. You bring your foes, steadily and then suddenly, to the brink of annihilation, but are never able to fully vanquish them. This may all happen in the span of a few hours, although it is the pattern of a lifetime.

The important thing is to know the waxing and waning whims of Fortuna, to ride out the cannon broadsides and emerge ready for violence. For the mind of a depressed person is usually ready to be happy, if given half the opportunity.