Turnip Stew @ the End of the World

I sometimes stew in an odd ('tis I that is most likely the odd thing in this stew) mixture of melancholy, mania, depression; a desire to accomplish things close to my heart (mainly reading and writing), feelings of inability to accomplish not just those precious acts due to physical and mental exhaustion, but also feelings of being unable to stay on top of those trivial responsibilities that I must, at least in a timely manner. I have been in and out of  this funk (more in than out) not just for days or weeks, but months now. So, am I dying? Could I possibly be psychic, and have entered a state of semi-despair (not really sure what a state of this nature would actually be, but I would think not quite as strong as despair itself) due to foreseeing the approaching end of the world as we know it? I don't think so, even though it's possible, I suppose.
Since I was young (well, younger than I am now), I have been prone to bouts of depression where I would lose the desire to speak. In fact, I would feel incapable of doing so. Upon occasion during my teens it even happened when I was with friends. I would become overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness, or spiritual depression (a depression of my spirit might describe it better). They, of course, would pester me to snap out of it, and eventually I would.
As with some experiences in life, these dark moods of mine are something I just have to ride out.
Lucky for me, I do have an excellent support network to aid me through these trying periods of blah. This includes my mother, a sister, an incredibly wonderful and wacky group of ESOL learners, of whom most I am blessed to call friends. And of course, one bird, and one bear. Albert, with whom I have a common spirit, even though he is a black bear, doesn't put up with my self-pity. He calls it a great failing of the human animal. And Eddie. Perhaps my most marvelous of friends. He puts himself completely in my care. He trusts me enough to sleep on my shoulder at times, as well as on my foot. Although he will only sleep on a ratty old pair of running shoes, no others will do. And when he's happy, he sings his little lungs out. Well. I'm not sure you would call it singing. More like a lot of yelling and wild bird calls, with some shrieking thrown in for good measure. It can be annoying once in awhile, but he is a living lesson of what it is to be alive.
So, even when I am in the doldrums, as I am now it seems, I am in good hands all the same. And of course, not just hands, but paws and claws as well, with some colorful wings to boot. Bring on the end of the world if you will. I am one helluva lucky fella'. And I won't go quietly. Later, Humans. Be well.