"I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words bother me." It's no secret that I struggle with Depression. I may not openly admit that I'm a loony fuck, but those in my life can tell when something isn't quite right. They witness the "real" me - the talkative perky bitch who will bug the shit out of you with girly nonsensical chatter, crazy laughter and too much silliness. I like this person. She makes me happy...probably because she is happy. But then there's this other me. The fearful Doubting Thomas, the one who counts imperfections on her bedroom ceiling, the one who curls up in a fetal position for days at a time, crying out for someone, anyone, to come and hold her, cradle her like a baby and rock her back and forth saying "It's all right...It's ok..." The scary thing is, in those moments - while I'm sobbing and an emotional wreck - I do find that comfort I need, however it's my own hand that caresses my cheek, my