My dad and his eleven brothers and sisters all suffer, in varying degrees, from manic depression. They require solo time, calling it "going down to the basement" in honor of my uncle Paul (with a metal plate in his head from a mugging in Chicago), who would not leave his dark basement bedroom for days at a time. Eventually, he'd emerge, not necessarily better for the wear.
A few years ago I miscarried by taking St. John's Wort to help with my depression and working out 3 hours a day (6 mile run and weights in the morning, step aerobics and treadmill in the evening). I didn't see daylight for five days and played the same two cds - Sarah McLachlan's Surfacing and Cowboy Junkies over and over. I didn't think I could feel a bigger loss. I was wrong.
Homes in Alabama don't have basements because of the water table (or something). "Sitting in my dark closet looking at my shoes" isn't as poetic as heading for the basement, but that's where I'll be for awhile. I have a habit of ruining all good things in my life.