My head, she is not a happy place these days. I can't get out of my own way. I keep trying to claw my way out of the hole, but it's like free climbing a shale wall: it looks like a solid foot hold, but it'll crumble the second you put any weight on it.
I know it'll pass. Off and on, my whole life, I've dealt with mild depression. I won't say that my coping mechanisms have gotten better with age, but at least I recognize that when the wall is crumbling, I need to stop - just for a minute - and examine why. The only way out is through.
Upside: I do some pretty amazing work during these periods. So I turn to my brushes and pots of ink and canvas... And I process. I let the canvas speak for me.