Sometimes I get scared when I am happy. When I was a child I had a reoccurring nightmare about a dwarf, like Rumplestiltskin, who would pop up out of the ground wherever I was. I’d be on the playground and he’d emerge through the tire rings. I’d be in the swimming pool and he’d come through the plugs. He’d then drag me into an underground chamber where he would test and torture me. That is what depression is to me. It’s always around, waiting to drag me back down whenever it sees the chance. I fear that cold, dark, secluded place it takes me. There is no life there. My friend often tries to reach me but he can’t. I am apathetic to his love, as though I have turned to stone just like the walls around me.