The depression I wrote about before only lasted a day this time. Sometimes it's more. Sometimes not. Last year I was depressed for months.
My mom used to fear for me. She said my lows were too low and my highs too high. She wanted me to be on an even keel.
My life, on an even keel, would be immeasurably dull.
Surely she must have feared I'd be manic-depressive. In these enlightened times, we call it being bipolar. I know a few bipolar bears, and I don't think I'm it.