While you are under the covers, a crew of 112 roustabouts with their heavy machinery will quietly tiptoe into your room, dismantle a few walls, and lay down five miles of high-speed electro-gravitational rail track that runs right under your bed. This is sort of the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes in reverse. God has singled out you and you alone for the visitation that is about to eventuate.

The next day you unwittingly arise only to find your brain rendered into sushi by the Tokyo Express hurtling out of your closet and through the back of your skull and out over the horizon, your sanity receding in the doppler blare of the engineer's horn, clanging crossing bells mocking your weakness and stupidity.

You eventually find a new head to pop onto your shoulders, and pick yourself up, only to be mowed down by the Hoboken Local, then the Chattanooga Choo-Choo, a tram, a trolley, and finally little puffer bellies all lined up in a row.

It's hopeless now. The kid down the street and his Cocoa-Puff train can crush what's left of your brain simply by looking in your direction. And this is perhaps the cruelest part of depression - there is no train to finish the job. The final deed is up to you, and you alone.

I bring this up because this happens to be my first anniversary of writing for Suite101.com. I had survived my worst round of depressions yet, and was still in a state of shell shock from the experience. One of the first things I did when I crawled out from under the covers was get to the computer. I was new to the internet and I was new to finally acknowledging depression, and I was also coming to grips with my diagnosis as a manic depressive, something I had somehow known all my life but up till now had steadfastly refused to accept.

I bounced from website to website, reading about what devastating illnesses both depression and manic depression were, but I also found that both were treatable, and that I had a major role in my recovery. Then I discovered various mental health bulletin boards, and even started replying to messages, once I worked up the courage. Over the next few weeks, I found myself gravitating to one particular board that was frequented by bipolars.

Someone there had posted ten reasons you know you're bipolar. Reason number ten, as I recall, was you know you're bipolar if you think Robin Williams should stop being so laid-back.

A few weeks later came a cryptic posting calling for writers. I was a writer. I replied. It turned out the person who ran the board happened to be the mental health editor at Suite101.com as well as the Bipolar editor, Colleen Sullivan. She was looking for someone to write on depression. I told her I was good for maybe four articles.

"Depression isn't the word for it," I wrote. "We're talking about a condition that can take over your mind, rob you of your dignity, deprive you of all the joyful offerings of life, and leave you nose down in two inches of water, feeling totally abandoned by man and God."

I would write as I learned, I decided, one article at a time. It would all be tied into my recovery. In the space of one week, I banged out three articles, then another three in another week, all backed up and waiting to go. There was no question in my mind now - I would have plenty to write about.

Writing is what helped bring me back from the dead. For me, it is a healing activity. If I were a basketball player I'd be shooting hoops, if I were a gardener I would be out with the petunias. Healing is about finding something that makes you feel alive and doing it. When I'm in full flight there is no time and space. The sun takes its leave, booming music falls mute, and the steaming hot cup of tea by my side is stone cold when I pick it up a minute later.

After six months in the land of the living dead, I was writing again, and really writing. I was still writing in the shadow of depression and manic depression, but I was writing. I was reclaiming my life, one article at a time.