I know you don’t want to hear about her! Not today! It’s a sunny day! You just want to enjoy it. I really don’t want to talk about her either, but I can’t help it.

When I leave the house, she’s there on the couch, promising she’ll wait for me to come back. But she’s lying. She goes with you on the bike, to the supermarket. She doesn’t care who you’re with; she just wants you to isolate and crawl.

Today she came with me. I took her for a cold swim, hoping to leave her in the lake. But no, she’s stubborn.

Having depression as a base for all emotions is hell. I can’t believe there are people who don’t experience it. It’s hard to talk to them; you don’t feel equal, you feel like a burden.

Today I decided to paint a wall red, just so her voice wouldn’t be louder than mine. She hates it when I make art because she knows it’s when she can’t get the best of me. That’s why I write. Grabbing a pen and an empty page is "scary", and she doesn’t want to do scary things. She wants me to stay in my comfort zone, which she has turned into a zone of discomfort.

So I fight every day to leave that comfort zone, which is really just the bed. I take anxiety pills and antidepressants, and I’m doing my best not to let her take the lead.

I dress myself nicely so that I look like I've got this and I wear make up. I'm trying to trick her and temporary it works. By the way, should you see me wearing all my jewellery you must know that I'm having a very hard day. "Overdressing" is my coping mechanism.

Depression is a monster, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. (Lies, maybe I would.) After all these years, you’d think I’d know when it’s her talking. But she’s smarter than you think.