It's a bad day, that's all. The wrong side of bed or the wrong leaves on the track.

It'll get better. Buck up, sunshine and turn that frown upside down.

Except it doesn't. The demons eat away at your insides and paint a big, fake smile on your face. But that's ok, because a nice cuppa will sort it out. You'll get over it.

I could swear there. People, unless you suffer from mental health problems, don't understand just what those problems are. Not really. They can know. They can read and see and listen, but they can't experience them. It's just not the same. They don't see the tree and have the voice telling them to drive into it. They don't have the spiralling frustration or the constantly clenched mind, trying to hold everything in lest it be released and cause a wake of devastation, both physical and emotional.

They don't see the blade and think it would only be a little cut.

A little pain to relieve the agony.

Life can be a yo-yo. Not a small spinning disc on a string... Well, perhaps exactly that. You're the disc. Life is the string. Sometimes you're plummeting to the ground and sometimes you're flying upwards towards the hand that holds you. Sometimes, you're spinning out of control and getting tangled in the threads.

Life can be an abyss, with you standing on the precipice. One small step for Man, one giant leap for insanity.

The tablets work. Happy pills. They lift and level and bring out your true colours, the ones which the dirt of depression (for it is a dirty word) muddy. But they can be thought of as a crutch rather than a helping hand, a chemical embrace holding you until the darkness fades. They can be a ball and chain instead of a chance.

A few of weeks ago, the happy pills weren't helping. Life was becoming a tsunami, and moods were swinging between the poles. The doctor, who wanted the pills to be weaned away to nothing and to just get on with life, agreed to change them. And prescribed the starting dose. So, not only were the tablets leaving the system before the new ones could begin to enter, the new ones were only the babies of what was actually needed.

Difficult. That's what that time was. Hard, and Everest is a big hill. Another doctor realised the problems. Wanted to help. Mentioned a 24 hour crisis line which had NEVER been spoken about previously, in years. And the tide turned and the swell of the ocean threatening to drown abated.

But, still. The edge still exists. The sharp sliver of steel is still creeping about, ready to pounce. it's kept at bay as much as it can be, but it can stills wipe a claw unbidden.

So, moods and sharp comments are ignored as they're not meant. A shock to the speaker as well as the listener. Escape to friends is accepted. Taking control of chores and children is done without complaint.

Because, depression isn't a bad day. It's not smile turned on its head. It's an illness. You don't just 'get over' an illness. You can recover and be treated, but sometimes it lingers on, a shadow on your heart.

I don't suffer from depression. I never have, and forgive me if I've not grasped the true essence of being bipolar and a manic depressive. As I've mentioned I can't know. I can read, though I can't feel it. But, for 13 years, I have known, loved and lived with a sufferer and, though the barbs are there and the colours muddied, I've always know what's inside is beautiful.

By