A certain certain level of hell, losing touch with your friends and trying to make new ones.  Especially during a downturn (which is most of the time), the chances of falling out of touch with a friend turbine upwards and the friends begin to spin off into the distance.  You can still see them out there, and you can still meet up with them now and again, but there’s a breach between you and the rest of the world, a disregulation of your emotions that puts you at odds with everything around you.  And this means friends are seen through a scrim, mistrusted at times, shrunk from while feeling like an insect.  Don’t step on me or my powerful emotions, I’ll just stand over here in this corner of my own room inside my head and stop reaching out.  But I’ll take any reciprocation, any evidence that my friends are ignoring me in kind, as an indication that I’m lower than an insect, that I’m worthless.  This weakness corrodes; it starts  as a symptom of the illness and is capable of withering your spirit.  And there’s no medication for this habit of thought — I am worthless.  Long after the worst of the depression is gone, the thoughts remain the same.  And I have no thoughts on a cure.