I remember the moment I realized my rumination was contributing to my chronic low mood and sense of frustration with life. I lived about a mile away from my job, and in nice weather I would walk to work through neighborhoods of beautiful homes and lush gardens. People in Berkeley love their gardens! On my walk, though, I tended to ruminate - to obsess over what was wrong in my life, to replay difficult incidents and conversations, to worry about what I was missing: the right relationship, the perfect body, the "right" personality. By the time I got to work, I would often feel more tense or distracted than when I had started out, and often I would have missed the beauty of the homes and gardens along the way.

I always thought there was something inherently wrong with me that I got depressed and sad; I figured that somewhere, way back when, I hadn’t learned some vital lesson that others - the ones who didn’t get depressed - had learned. In the back of my mind I always figured I was flawed in a deep, core way that meant that I would never have the things that others had: marriage, successful career, physical beauty, the ability to connect easily with others. This is what I would ruminate over on my walk: why can I never seem to be able to do the things others do? What was wrong with me?

I think I’ve had depression, or at least dysthymia - chronic low mood - ever since I was a child. I’ve aways gotten sad and frustrated easily, and I’ve always been extremely sensitive, reacting to normal daily frustrations with intense emotion. At times, I’ve had the sense of falling deep into a dark valley or well, and in those times it felt impossible that I’d ever get out. I once drew a picture in my journal of a small figure standing on a ledge, her back pressed to the wall, and, at her feet, a deep, black abyss. And then, usually on its own, the darkness would lift and it seemed impossible that anything had ever felt wrong.

Walking to work one morning, in the throes of depression and sadness over a relationship that was going badly, I had a moment of clear insight: for a split second, I saw the cogs and wheels of my mind spinning and chewing endlessly over an incident where I had felt wronged. In that moment, somehow I linked my mental chatter to the feeling of hopelessness and despair that were so common for me. I realized that, most of the time, when I fell into a depression, it was after several all-encompassing sessions of rumination, and that, to a certain degree, I could predict when I would start to feel the darkness.

Because I had 30-45 minutes most mornings to practice on my walk to work, I began to experiment with how to shut off the voice. This is before I became aware of the Buddhist concept of mindfulness, but eventually my curiosity about the role of rumination in my depression led me to read books about meditation, mindfulness, and present-moment awareness.

I found I could, with practice, catch myself ruminating, and turn my attention to something else - a beautiful garden, the light through the summer leaves, a cool breeze blowing. When my voice refused to be quieted, I would sometimes just tell it to shut up, and I found I could envision slamming a metal wall down to silence that internal chatter. It was never a permanent solution, but even being aware of it seemed to help. The habit of intense rumination slowly started to fade.

Eventually I discovered Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, meditation, mindfulness, and Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, all of which have helped me immensely. I’ve experienced both individual and group therapy, yoga, and the power of nature to quiet my worries and doubts. Though I have taken antidepressants, I am not on them now and find that, of all the possible ways to treat my depression, they are the least effective for me.

I still ruminate - I probably always will have that tendency - but slowly, I’m beginning to recognize the pattern. I realize it’s usually worse in the mornings as I’m getting ready for work, or on weekends, if I’m alone, lying in bed and thinking. Even now, about six years after my first realization, I sometimes fail to catch myself when my brain begins to churn over some difficult life situation, and I see myself fall into that deep hole. But even during conflict or dark moments, I can more easily step back from my thoughts and emotions, and, usually, temper my tendency to overreact. When I do get depressed, I can get out of that hole faster than I used to, and I forgive myself more easily.

I realize that we need to play with the cards that we were dealt, that I am not any more flawed than anyone else, and that I can, with patience and compassion for myself, learn how my own brain operates, and use my understanding to help myself keep the depression at bay. Not only that; I can learn from my depression about what matters to me, what I need to change in my life, and I can even, sometimes and for brief moments, feel gratitude for my depression for bringing me along the path to insight and self-awareness.

Melissa Kirk is the co-author of Depression 101: A Practical Guide to Treatments, Self-Help Strategies, and Preventing Relapse. She also writes a blog on love, spirituality and relationship called Mellifluence.