It's been a few years since this feeling of hopelessness and the weight of something a little more sharp than sadness settled in the gut of my stomach and rewired my brain.  
"Chemical makeup and nothing more than a passing phase," she told me. "I made it through and so will you."
"How long?" I sighed out, tired although the day had only just begun for me.
Some days are harder than others. Most days I wake up and forget what it's like to feel okay, forget what it's like to have a productive day, forget what it's like to feel fully rested. Other days feel like a war being fought on my own front lawn and I can do nothing to stop it.
I'm not scared, although I suppose I always have a little fear. I fear I won't wake up the next morning, fear that I might, fear that I won't wake up from the nightmare that is depression.
"I don't know, honey, but it will be okay," she rubs my hand and I can see the battle wounds of her own wars painted on her skin. Nobody is ever safe from themselves.