On the dark side of the cycle

People who don't have depression rarely understand or bother to wonder what it is like to spend a huge chunk of their lives basically wishing they'd never existed. I don't mean that in the sense of embarrassment("I wished the ground would just swallow me up, I was so mortified", etc)or not wanting to face the consequences of something they've done or has been set in motion by someone else; I mean simply wishing that the life they lived had never occurred. Its obvious to me, right now, that my depression is at its low peak because I can't even be bothered to make my sentences grammatically correct, and am even having to force myself to write them in the first place. I can't draw at the moment, because every drawing (faces and bodies, in particular) I do just seems out of proportion to a degree that looks beyond amateurish and entering into insane territory.
  Although there does seem to be one thing that occurs when I reach this place:- new story ideas come thick and fast. Unfortunately not much in the way of little details to help with my first 'big concept' story about the vampire/parasite in the west end of Glasgow, circa 1995. Instead I get loads of little ideas that may or may not become something more substantial in the future. For example, walking along today, I had the idea of a man checking himself into the casualty department asking to get medical help for his driver. As things unfold,  it becomes clear that the guy is under the impression that his 'driver' is actually a wee guy who lives inside his head, pulling levers and pushing buttons, etc, to control the body like in 'The Numbskullls' or in 'Men In Black'. It won't come to anything, I suspect, but it was an idea I had a little fun with it as I walked along. Perhaps it could be 'real' and the story could take off when the surgeon discovers this reality, turning into a kind of modern day Dashiell Hammet, by way of Kafka, noir conspiracy thriller. My point here is that, as fertile as my imagination may be, my depression always seems to find a way to pull me back to earth, even as it gives me the paths to the ideas.
 It feels as though the biggest fantasy I have is of ever actually managing to get somewhere with my life. The days in bed and nights playing consoles or on pissing about on the internet and two week drug/drink binges that run/ruin my libido are as unhealthy as the mutually assured destruction type relationships that i end up in  to escape from depression at least always burn out as quickly as my brain and soul do in the middle of them. All of these things feel like minor symptoms of a much deeper rot in the very core of my being, as though the universe is in perfect agreement with my feeling that I ought never to have been born. I don't know, I guess i just needed to vent and now I've done it. So there. I don't know if I'm happy or sad that I'll likely never give out the URL of this blog! Depression will do that.