Last year, though, the whole mirror, what was left of it, crashed to the ground. There was, it seemed, not one thing that could go right. Twice my body failed me, twice I had surgery to remedy this. There were lawyers, God, so many lawyers, as legal battles I never dreamed of emerged. And then there was the emotional.
Depression is an odd beast.
No longer denied its genuine existence, an odd stigma remains. Those of us who suffer it, who've suffered it forever, hate to categorize it for the mental illness it is. Still, somewhere in the back of our minds we cannot deny the effects. When the Great Depression of 1997 hit, though, I was ill-prepared. It attacked with the tenacity of a concrete-jungle trained pitbull, a dog placed on a treadmill with a kitten dangling just out of reach.