The Three Stages of Depression, as Defined by Pathetic 80's Love Ballads

If you've ever been depressed and had someone ask how you feel, after a while it gets boring just saying, "I'm depressed ... still." or "I'm depressed ... yet again."

How does one quantify the depths of his or her depression in an adequate way? It's not like you're at the hospital with the pain chart that says "1-10" with varying degrees of sad or painful faces.

Instead of pondering how to truly express your heartache and sadness, I have made this terrific chart on how to explain your level of misery using pathetic 80's love ballads. Plug in, tune out, and cry like a little b*tch as much as you want. Now your friends and family can truly understand the depths of your doom and gloom.

"Heaven," by Bryan Adams:
This is when the tears are soft, you're still eating, and you don't mind seeing people but perhaps at a bar or for dinner. You might break out the tissues a little, but there's some hope left in your dark grey cloud. All is not lost...yet. Your friends can feel safe in knowing you're sad, but not hopeless.

"Open Arms," by Journey:
Now you've become a bit of a wet blanket, so friends don't want to talk to you too much, but you're not unbearable, Yet.
You eat junk food and watch reality tv and wonder how those "dumb-as*es" are on tv, yet here you are basking in your Frito-Lays and unhappiness, feeling like a sloth and pondering why you went to a competitive college only to study Liberal arts.
You're pathetic, but not at medicated level.

"Against All Odds," by Phil Collins:
You've lost five pounds and quit eating the Doritos.
You cry at work when people send you emails asking for stuff, which is um, always, and you've told everyone on Facebook to go "screw themselves"in very vague terms to which no one else understands but you. They just think you're on some political tirade, but really you hate the world.
You start to read a lot of philosophy and end up arguing with your online dating matches about their profile photos.
You're kind of a jerk, you know.

"Missing You," by John Waite:
Now you've done it. Even your therapist is beginning to feel you're a lost cause. The constant crying and lack of food has made you look like a poster child. You show up to dates talking about your ex-wife or husband, and the dates go on their blogs to write about how they feel bad for you.
You start to medicate but all it does is prolong your orgasms, which always come through masturbation.

"Hard Habit to Break
," by Chicago:
Oh boy. It's over. You are officially clinically depressed.
You're listening to Chicago. You start to identify as Peter Cetera.
You wear khakis and boring clothes that mask your body. You are at one with the depression. You have ran up psychic-hotline bills and now they see you coming and get you good.
You're not dating anymore and even your mom is starting to wonder if you will have emerge from the depths that is known as "Chicago 17" the Depression Years.

When it gets to this point, it's time to check yourself in somewhere, or at least rotate your tunes to 80's hair metal in which you will feel either incredibly manly or totally sexually objectified depending on your gender.

You're welcome.