Depression always sneaks up on her. Whenever she watches out for it, it is always no where to be found, hiding out in the shadows. For awhile she is wary, vigilant of her surroundings, careful of choices to ensure that she will stay out of it's snare. But after so long of being fine, after so many sunshine-y days of blessing, she focuses her attention elsewhere. She starts to notice shadows in her path and brushes them aside because not every day can be sunshine and roses. When it's too late, she notices she is in it's wake, and it has stopped concealing itself, stopped crouching in the shadows. It stands at full height, now baring down on her it's weight pressing her farther and farther into the ground so she can't rise from it. After a time it leaves, and she's left shaking, curled in a ball, cold and sweaty from the struggle.
When she's back on solid ground again, she is wary once again, surely next time she will be prepared for the sneak attack. Surely next time she won't be trapped, she will notice the signs of it creeping out of the shadows. Surely this time was the last time, surely this is all she has to endure, all she has to suffer. Surely, it is over.
But that is what she says every time. Every time, there is a next time.
