Some see depression as a cluster of dark clouds, heavy with precipitous thoughts and “stuff”. Clouds, because they are randomly and scarcely scattered across a vast sky - and they eventually pass. They are liquid, amorphous - physical but unreachable.

I often think of depression as the ocean.

It is constant in volume, ever-present with insurmountable depth. Often, the surface is asynchronous with what lies beneath. Calm and timid waves blanket rip tides and cunning currents. Depression often comes in waves, too. At times you can ride it, floating on your back, gazing up to the sky. If you're feeling adventurous, you can muster some strength and surf the rolling waves - look out to the horizon ahead and feel completely in control. But sometimes, depression can be triggered without warning and can be brought on by external factors like the weather. Gales can catch you off guard, swallowing you whole and taking you under. Forced to, you hold your breath, and when it pushes you out to the surface for a brief second - you gasp. Breathe. Then you go under. A rough tumble. Washing you clean. Spin, spin, spin. Caught by surprise, but you know that this too shall pass. You calm yourself. And you try to enjoy the ride - catch sight of the colours of the corals, and you remember that where there's light, there is life. And light finds its way to the deepest depths of the ocean. And you worry less. You become more aware of your surroundings. Vision, slightly less blurred. You notice the trail of bubbles, a community of fish and the weightlessness of your being. You float again.

That is how I experience depression.

It comes and it goes, always in flow.

I have enough experience now to recognise it quite early in its approach. I can sense the small differences it brings - I become slightly more agitated, more lethargic, more prone to stay in bed, less fluent in conversation, less present, and just a feeling of general ‘’less-ness”.

It comes less frequently now than it used to - for which I'm happy to give myself credit. I have been working at it, shifting my inner narratives gradually and incrementally. It's also credit to the people I surround myself with, and the environment that it creates.

Nowadays, when it comes, it feels strange and I would be caught offguard. But not too long ago, there was a time when its visits felt almost comforting.

There was a time when it was the friend who lived around the corner, it had a key to my house, and would let themselves in and make themselves at home at any hour of any day. I would find crumbs left out on the counter, and traces of their being all around. But with the work I have been doing - practicing mindfulness and awareness - this friend drifted away. And so after long periods of silence, I am shocked when I hear them suddenly unlock the door and walk in - I forget that they never returned their key.

At times, I feel like it renders me powerless as it stands defiant in the space of my spirit. It knocks my breathing out of rhythm, forcing me to take deeper breaths and more sighs. It captures my attention and holds it hostage. It takes my words and severs my speech. And I know (from experience) that to exert force and force it out would be futile. Instead, I must first acknowledge its presence, and then turn the thoughts into some form of action.

This could be meditation in its various forms. Observing the breath, reciting prayers or a mantra, or taking pen to paper and writing down the thoughts. If unrestricted by circumstance, you could practice active meditation. Moving in any form: jumping and shaking about, doing push-ups, yoga, cycling or running. It could be small things like unclenching your jaw (it often tightens when stressed) and stretching for better blood (and therefore oxygen) circulation.

These are the little techniques I have learnt.

And I record here, for future reference.

Today, I felt it coming, and I felt powerless as I watched it take over my day.

However, almost by instinct, I acted to remediate my situation - self-medicating my own concoction of self-care serum.

I cycled home using a different route. One that would allow me to see the river - I don't know why, but bodies of water always help to clear and calm the mind. This route also introduced novelty - and a need to be present as I navigated myself through unfamiliar streets. I'm so used to my routine that I go on autopilot and into a state of flow almost immediately on the first pedal. Sometimes, being in flow is good. Other times, you need alertness. Today, I needed my body and mind to be alert. As I cycled, I thought of these words. Arranging and rearranging them in my mental space - how do I want to tell this story?

That's how I dealt with today’s “unexpected visitor”.

I may not have invited them in, but I hope I treated them “honorably” and made them comfortable during their visit.