Depression sucks.

It saps us of our self-confidence, our vitality, even sometimes our will to live.

You can’t just tell someone who’s depressed to snap out of it. It’s not a “mood.” It requires a lot more than a hug and a few platitudes to get someone out of that hole before it gets too deep.

I’ve had several bouts with depression during my lifetime. When it hits me, it muddles my brain. I stop caring about things that normally matter to me. I consciously avoid people or activities that make me happy. I’m emotionally exhausted every day, but can’t sleep.

A lot of people turn to alcohol or some pharmaceutical panacea during such periods. My poison of choice is rich comfort foods: Kraft mac &cheese, Milano cookies, Ben &Jerry’s ice cream. And I’m talking about the entire box, the entire bag, the entire pint in one sitting. All the self-destructive power with no hangover. Yay.

That’s part of why I’ve come to refer to my recurring depression as “couch potato syndrome.” The other reason is, during these periods, I spend a lot of time in my favorite chair because there are always too many reasons not to do anything.

I know I should get out of the house, but I don’t, because I can’t decide where to go. Or getting there seems like too much effort. Or it’s raining. Or it’s too sunny. Or the prospect of being among other people is horrifying.

I know I should make myself some dinner, but I don’t, because I can’t decide what I want to eat. Or I’m out of a key ingredient and don’t want to go to the store. Or it’s just too much work to put something together. Or maybe I’m just not hungry after all.

I know I should tidy up my house as the dishes pile up and the dust bunnies multiply, but I don’t, because … well, actually, I don’t like housework to begin with. Bad example. Scratch that.

Why do I tell you all this? While I’m not proud of this aspect of my life, I’m not ashamed of it either. I can’t control when depression shows up to hold me hostage like a train at the Gateway shopping center. But I can control how I deal with it — and so can others in my boat.

Recognizing the problem, of course, is key. Sometimes I don’t realize I’m sliding until I cancel a couple of activities I had been looking forward to, or I snap at a friend or co-worker without provocation, or I’m sobbing myself to sleep for no good reason at all. But once I see it for what it is, I act.

First, I take stock: How bad is it already? Can I focus on anything other than the TV for longer than a few minutes at a time? Am I feeling “fuzzy”? Did I have to talk myself into getting out of bed that morning? What about the days before that?

Next, I make sure at least one person close to me knows what’s going on so they can keep tabs on me and speak up if I slide too far. This means opening up to one or more people, which I sometimes have to force myself to do — but I do it because it’s important.

And finally, if I can’t get a handle on it with help from friends and family, I talk with my doctor about prescribing an anti-depressant to help me along.

In the end, I always find my way out of the hole — but only because I’ve learned to actively seek out the help I need, and to accept aid when it’s offered. And if I can give anyone else a leg up just by telling my story, then so much the better.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my dog for a long walk and then fix myself a decent dinner. Maybe with a couple of Milanos afterward.

Just a couple.

Kat Bryant is lifestyle editor of The Daily World. Reach her at kbryant@thedailyworld.com or on Facebook at Kat Bryant-DailyWorld.