Unhappy Hello to my old Companion

Depression is like anesthesia that starts in one's extremities (fingertips, toes, ends of one's hair) and creeps so gently and slowly up one's veins, ever working its way nearer and nearer to one's heart. That creep is familiar to me and I become aware of it before it reaches my first knuckles, sometimes before it even leaves my finger nails. There is no stopping it; just the thought, "Hello Old Friend, how I loathe you." It makes my bones heavy. It urges me softly to sit still, to put my book down, not to answer my phone, not to move, not to think, just to sit perfectly still and do nothing. Even now, I force my fingers to move though they creak in protest. They are so weighty.
They say (whomever they may be) that Hope deferred makes the heart sick. Not that I had hope, really. But when a person such as myself builds up a fantasy and then real life feeds it with tiny tidbits, a person such as myself is unable to resist a small semblance hope. I never really had a chance. An interesting manchild paid me the slightest bit of attention and my made up world reeled. He is too much more muchier than I am. He has too many other options. He is more lively than a girl like me could ever be. I give up before I begin.