Balance.

Stage One: Anxiety.

Depression is strange. It's like a dimmer switch. When the switch is turned up all the way I'm happy, content, and rational. Life moves by at the usual pace. I wake up, smoke a cigarette or two, eat breakfast, take a shower, brush my teeth, go to school, get home, smoke a few more cigarettes, do some homework, put my work clothes on, go to work, get home, finish any remaining homework, smoke another cigarette, brush my teeth, and go to bed. Rinse and repeat. I do menial things without thinking twice, like getting gas or grabbing a gallon of milk on my way home from work because I remember - hey, we're not gonna have any milk for cereal tomorrow morning. Chatting with my little group of neurotic friends at school and the bitchy soccer-mom's at work is a non-issue. Frank doesn't even bother me that much either. He's still there; he'll comment on things I do the wrong way, but he doesn't argue. 

You parked crooked. People are gonna think you're an idiot because you parked crooked. Fix it!
No one is going to think I'm an idiot because I parked a little crooked, Frank.
....Fine!

Depression is slow. It likes to creep up on me. It's like Frank finds that dimmer switch and turns it down just a little bit each day; it's so minute I don't notice any change. Similar to the hands on a clock - the minute and hour hands move so slow you can't see. But you look back half an hour later and both hands are in different positions. Once the depression hits full-force, you look back and realize you've missed all the warning signs. Living outside of a depressive slump you start to see the world through rose-tinted glasses - all the little red flags warning you that you're heading into a pit just look like flags. Hindsight is 20/20, right?

When Frank decides to play with that switch in my head -- turning it down -- the first symptom I notice is anxiety. It's not overwhelming, but it's there. Talking with "The Group" at lunch becomes a chore rather than something to look forward to. Handling pissy customers at work makes my heart beat like a hummingbird flapping its wings, I lose my voice, and my forehead starts to sweat. Writing essays becomes impossible. Looking at an empty page and watching the cursor blink at me, impatiently.

Okay, we got this. Just... start writing.
You're not gonna be able to do this. Give up.
Shut up. I never know how to start these things.
Well duh, you're a piece of shit. You're going to fail this class and you're not going to graduate.
Yea-huh I'll graduate - just watch. You're the piece of shit, Frank. You're a distracting shit-stain.
Ouch. That cuts deep, Joel.
Good.

When my anxiety starts up Frank is always there, buzzing in my ear. It's true, he's distracting. Incredibly distracting. So I'm a delivery driver; I bring sandwiches to lazy, smelly people. They usually come up to the door in their underwear, reeking of weed. There have been a handful of times I've been out on delivery -- he'll be grumbling away about school or something -- and I'll miss the turn-off and won't realize I'm heading in the wrong direction until I'm half a mile down the road. Then, of course, he'll just start calling me a dumbass idiot who needs to pay more attention. This is totally your fault, Frank!

I start to feel like everyone is watching me. Judging me. I won't go to the grocery store because Frank will do commentary. Oh, you're checking out bananas? That lady over there is watching you. She's probably thinking, "Wow, look at that smug asshole. He just needs to find the best bananas. God forbid he gets any that are too small, or bruised!" Just grab some fucking bananas and move on! So I'll grab the first bunch I see, put it in my basket, and continue browsing the store. "Oh my Lord, he didn't even look at those bananas! What an idiot - they're probably covered in mold."

THEY'RE JUST FUCKING BANANAS. I JUST WANT SOME FUCKING BANANAS. SHUT THE FUCK UP, FRANK.
O-okay, grumpy.

So I'll usually just stay home when my anxiety gets bad; banana-less, staring at a blinking, judgemental cursor on an empty page for about a half an hour before going to bed.

You forgot to brush your teeth. Idiot.

Goddammit, lay off.