There’s nothing that crushes creativity quite as thoroughly as depression. Depression crushes everything in its path, but creativity is its most obvious casualty.

I stare at the page; no ideas come to mind. My mind is filled with fog, like that of caffeine withdrawal, but coffee doesn’t touch it. If I write about the love of my five cats — yes, they love me unconditionally, even when they avoid me — I get weepy because I doubt I deserve their love.

If I write about death, I fear that someone will put me in the inpatient ward, where they strip you of all the autonomy of adulthood — no phones or computer to stay connected, no shoestrings, mandatory group sessions, the position of having to ask for everything you need. I don’t understand how depersonalizing the patient helps them heal, but that’s the process.

If I write about anything else — I draw a blank. I cannot find the words, and when I do, they demand to be dragged out of my mind one. word. at. a. time.

Depression is not sadness — sadness is draped in dignity, and writing about sadness evokes a broad, snowy plain where the air is so still the trees might shatter. It’s not anger — anger burns clean and hot like a flaming sword, and in some cases the angel’s righteousness flows through the anger.

Finding yourself wandering at the edge of the woods after a forest fire, smelling damp, burnt woods and finding the carcasses of birds and small animals of the ground. You have no home anymore; you have no phone, nor anyone nearby.

That’s depression.