It's close to noon on a Tuesday, and I'm wondering whether or not I'll be getting out of bed today. It is as yet an uncertainty, even to me; but so far the smart money is on "˜no'. The argument can be made that, as it is almost noon, I have essentially missed half of what this particular Tuesday had to offer. Since I'm already entertaining doubts as to the quality of the second half, I'm considering whether I should just forgo the whole spectacle.

The only problem is that I forewent Monday as well, and Friday the week before. Although I can't really remember back any further than that with much acuity, a glance at my daily planner would tell me I'd opted out of Thursday too. Furthermore, skipping today is likely to decrease Wednesday's chance of making it on the board as well--which means I'm on the verge of giving myself a sorely undeserved week-long vacation from the world. Some strange sort of extra sensory perception kicks in. It tells me this is something my professors might not appreciate.

In my planner I record my lost days with little black marks, not for dramatic effect as much as a sense of chronology. When I didn't I'd lose all track of time; days would bleed into each other, the narrative of my life would become erratic and terrifying. While this practice provides the comfort of sequence, it also allows me to tally just how much life I'm missing.

I eventually get out of bed. I don't want to, but I am driven by the usual primal needs: eating, pooping, and gaming. Convinced at this point that the day cannot be salvaged, I reconcile my undesired exodus by not putting on any clothes.

So it comes to pass that on a Tuesday afternoon, while the rest of the world is at class or at work or dead, I am sitting at my computer in my underwear. And while rooting for a DVD within the protean kipple beneath my desk, I find myself bounded, staring up wild-eyed from within a reflective, circular prison. So pale, so thin, so obviously damaged. This is the climax, the zenith of the troth. For a moment so immeasurably brief it may as well be infinite, I have lost all recognition of myself. It's like nirvana in reverse.

This is when the bells go off, the klaxons I try so hard to suppress, the voice at the back of my mind repeating: "You are not in control. You are not in control. You are not in control."

I would not say I've ever "struggled" with depression. I've yet to even wholeheartedly embrace the term. Until recently, I had resisted assigning any moniker to these periods. I believed that labels have a tendency to take over, to become bigger than the thing itself. To submit to a label is to forever become the label, and as such there were labels I thought I'd best avoid: depression, psychosis, nervous breakdown.

People for whom depression is an actual struggle seem inclined to much less subtle forms of self-destruction; drink and drugs and The Cure. My bouts, supported primarily on the twin pillars of sleep and videogames, seem quite pedestrian in comparison. As such I've never been inclined to describe these meetings with depression as "struggles", as much as a series of week-long, nerdy debates, punctuated by fits of narcolepsy.

But I've begun to sleep even more; to eat less. I've the distinct sense that I'm becoming powerless over my own actions. I live my life in the narrow spaces around these moments, hoping they won't come. When they do, I wait patiently in stasis for their end, the world passing by outside my window. At some point one has to give in, and let the label overtake them.

In these moments every action becomes suspect. Everything I do is either a symptom or a treatment. To gain relief, everything must be examined. Each activity must be sorted into one of two columns: degenerate and not so degenerate. Showering in the dark: degenerate. My room's slow decline into squalid entropy: quite obviously degenerate. This compulsion is, of course, quite debilitating itself. While the unexamined life may not be worth living, the over-examined life is unlivable.

Like everything in my life, games must face this manic scrutiny. But they're one of the more complicated cases. I find it strange that besides sleep, misery, and crippling, neurotic introspection, all quite common events in the depressive Olympiad, gaming is the one common denominator between these episodes. In fact, I might even say I hardly ever play as many games as when I'm at my most miserable. Of course, this inevitably leads me wonder: do I play because I'm depressed, or am I depressed because I play?

This is a depressive paradox, meaningless and labyrinthine and ultimately useless, but in this state it becomes a koan, an all-absorbing mantra. Why do I play so many games during these periods? Why am I so compelled? In a situation where I cannot even control what time I get out of bed, perhaps it's no wonder that I would prefer the perfect, immaculate control of an avatar to my own sloppy interface. And perhaps that's why I've begun to yell at the top of my lungs when my avatar doesn't respond appropriately, to react in frightening disproportion when latency shatters my illusion.

When I was a child, and there was little in the world from which I desired escape, games were a supplement to my life. Have they now become a detriment? They seem to have taken on a new meaning. They have become objects of escapism in the truest sense of the word. But what sort of escape? When I play games, am I waiting out the storm, or fiddling while my city burns?

My roommate comes in. He says that dinner's ready. He asks why I'm in my underwear. Though caught off-balance by the passage of six unnoticed hours, I'm quick on the draw: "I was just about to take a shower".

The fever breaks, but I know that it is temporary. Relapse is inevitable; the boulder will roll down into the valley. But at least I have something to occupy my mind while I'm pushing it back up--who cares if it means I'll take a little longer to get to the top? In the shower, I already hear whispers in the running water. "You are not in control. You are not in control. You are not in control."