I don't remember when I last felt such a contrast between, on the one hand, a life that seems to be going well, and on the other, a crushing depression. The brief sunshine of the weekend was replaced, on Monday morning, with the familar, leaden sensation that I've experienced as depression, on and off, for the last six years. And it's been with me all week long, a constant background to everything I do.

If you've never experienced clinical depression, it's probably hard to understand it. You might think, jeez, just snap out of it. Or, as Hunter once memorably said to me, think happy thoughts. I wish it was as easy as that. It feels like something imposed upon me, something I have no control over, and something very physical. It most often feels something like a heavy metal band in my head, and it works itself out most frequently in removing joie-de-vivre and in quoshing the desire to interact with other people.

It's not with me always. I can go months with no recurrence. Equally, it can last months at a stretch, albeit with breaks here and there, like this weekend. When those breaks occur, it's wonderful. I wake up, and I'm instantly aware that the depression has lifted. My spirits are bouncy. I test them out cautiously, but take them gladly, since I know the depression will return.

Since I experience it in such a physical way, I've learned to live with it as much as possible. It's rare, now, that I let it send me completely down. I stay active, I work out, I go running, I work, I pursue my out of work dreams, and I make myself see friends. And all those things help. When I'm running, I still feel the depression, but there's also some enjoyment. Seeing friends can sometimes even hide the physical sensations for our time together.

This week has been a terriffic week, in many ways. My project at work is approaching its culmination, and next week we'll install the application at the customer's site, cross our fingers, and hope it works. And I'm making great progress on three film projects that really excite me. The screenwriting class has been such an inspiration, despite the hard work it requires. Last night, we were given some extra homework due next week; we have to write a five-page screenplay, set in a single location, with two characters, one who wants to jump, and the other who wants to prevent the jump. I wrote the whole thing this morning in a burst of energy, and I think it's a pretty funny little screenplay, even though it was just an exercise. The cleaner, Sally, is real, although she's never yet threatened to jump from my balcony.

And I finished the first draft of the treatment for the feature-length screenplay I have to write for class. I was surprised by the direction the script took, but pleased, again, with the results. I've never really thought that storytelling was one of my gifts, and I still think that my work tends to be a little obvious at times. But I'm coming to believe that hard work and practice might make a decent storyteller of me yet.

The usual request: please don't write to me expressing sympathy for my depression. That's not why I write about it. I write about it for two reasons only; first, because most people don't talk about it, even though many experience it. And second, because if I'm not going to write about the single most "felt" thing in my life, then I might as well not have an online journal at all. Besides, in the scheme of things, I'm pretty well off, so please conserve your sympathy for those who really need it.