I’ve gotten good over the years at battling depression. Practice makes purring.

Whether depression’s a disease, personality type, or level of perception, while an interesting enough debate, doesn’t change the unpleasant fact that it’s a dumbfounding, debilitating drag that at least wastes zest and at its worst… don’t go there. If ever you meet a depressive who enjoys it, steer clear, they’re a whack job.

Hamlet is our poster child, Shakespeare our bard, though the condition afflicts many makers and may help explain our weird avidity. When Antonio groans in The Merchant of Venice,

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedIn sooth, I know not why I am so sad:It wearies me; you say it wearies you;But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,I am to learn;And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,That I have much ado to know myself,

he speaks for me. Ditto Flaubert:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedIn order not to live, I plunge into art, like a man in despair; I make myself drunk with ink as others do with wine.

My first bout came after my chemotherapy for cancer concluded. I should be happy, right? I was, my happiest ever, alive and married to the amazing Jane. When my oncologist warned me of the risk of depression, I scoffed: I was the sanest guy I knew, vain about my ability to face facts and devise solutions. Then whammo. Down for the count – a count that might never end – listless, mirthless, worthless, gazing longingly at the sidewalk eight stories below, musing how pleasant to be done!

I did as my doc directed – I owed Jane that much. Therapy, activity, drugs, exercise. Certain I’d never recover – a common conviction of depressives – I might as well give it a go. Slowly the cloud lifted. I could write again – a few paragraphs, at least. I could sleep. I could smile.

With my second bout, recognizing the rascal, I marched myself to my doctor and declared I was dying of cancer – this time for real – could he give me something. He checked my vitals and gave me a prescription… to a shrink. Therapy, activity, drugs, exercise… recovery’s quicker if you believe it might work.

From then on I accepted depression as my inevitable companion, recurring like the black horse on the merry-go-round. How to cope. Therapy and drugs were godsends if required, but I sought a handy home remedy, cheap and easy to apply. I disliked the idea of dependence on chemicals or professionals: they made me feel a weakling and gobbled precious time.

Hence this protocol (you may have heard me parrot it): Right yourself by writing yourself. At the first glimpse of gloom, I open my journal and force myself to utter – anything – no matter what – even gibberish, if I must. One word leads to the next: that’s the miracle of prose, it self-propels. Make every sentence tell, no blather, and sooner or later I’ve prodded myself into a new state of mind with new scenery, interests, complications, etc. The drill may take an hour or a week, but if I keep at it, I’ll extricate myself and if I can’t, drugs and shrinks may be secured (and covered by insurance).

I just repeated this trick, which gave me the idea for this missive. I don’t take victory for granted. One day the monster might have its way with me, I would not be surprised. But in the meantime (the only time we have), it pleases me to prevail in skirmishes. If you’re grim, give it a try. The price is right.