Goddamn! My friends, without necessarily intending to, write about my own life better than I do.

This time, it's Maggie:

And the worst part, when you're trapped inside yourself like that, is the piss-poor company. The bitter voice coldly listing off your failures for you. Chastising you for your laziness, your inability to cope. Screeching about your poor parenting skills, beseeching you to look at your daughter over there, half naked, glazed eyes riveted on Spongebob, fingers greasy with chips. You know what you should do. You should get up. Take a walk. Do one simple yoga stretch. Shower, for chrissake. Engage your child, she might make you laugh. Do something to break the spell. But you can't, and that's why it's a disease.