the dog will not leave the porch

There's a point, on a bad day, where you make calls. You make a stab at making plans because you don't want to be alone. Enough time goes by, and that desire passes. You find yourself hoping no one calls back because the thought of having to open your mouth and make conversation becomes overwhelming. You don't want to hear one more person say, What's wrong? So then you isolate. And sink further into your own head --which is the one place no one wants to be. You find yourself watching the clock, wishing for the hours to pass so it can be late enough to justify going to bed. You find yourself dreading bedtime because you probably won't sleep. You dread sleeping just as much. Sleeping means waking up and having to do it all over again.

You understand, intellectually, that nothing is that bad. You understand that many people, people you know and love, are dealing with unspeakable pain. You feel selfish for the way you feel. You can't feel otherwise. The very idea that you might feel good anywhere in the future is nonsense. You make the mistake of letting your mother hear it in your voice. She calls you six times in a day. You want to stop answering. She will worry. And call more. So you answer, and try to make your voice sound otherwise. It's exhausting.

I once heard Padgett Powell describe depression as the dog of loneliness. Others call it the beast. I call it a vicious, never-ending cycle.