Depression is like an angry child: any injustice or minor bump can send it into a squalor. It will pout during the worst of storms, biding its time to strike at the most crippling of moments. It will allow you believe you have regained control and some bit of peace and harmony in your life, only to attack with an unbridled vengeance the moment you attempt to reach out for some mundane dream: a degree, a job, a relationship.

Depression thrives on making you feel powerless, friendless, and above all, worthless. It stomps you into the ground for no reason, and whispers fears into your soul as would a heartless captor, intent on turning its victim into no more than a husk.

You are left sick, broken, empty… too scared to reach for help. Afraid of mockery, misunderstanding, loathing, captivity, anger, revulsion, or smothering from any would-be Good Samaritan. No one, not kin, nor friends, nor lovers can be trusted due to the deep rooted fear brought on by depression.

Why then, do we hard-suffering captives persist on living?

For hope: That the storm will pass like it always does eventually. That finally some new medication will work where others failed. That those who we love would be heartsick if we gave up. That perhaps there’s a merciful God, even if all we’ve seen and gone through screams otherwise. That a stranger might hold the answers.

But most of all, hope that someone will see past our mask of feigned emotion and care enough to find us the help we can’t find ourselves.