Clinical depression

So here's a little story of a hapless punk
She was high all week and spent her weekends drunk
She was happy and content; she was doing fine
As long as the skin on her wrists was clad in bloody lines
She held a steady job; she made a decent wage
She had a perfect life, but she lived in a cage
She was everybody's puppet; she was such a fool
Thinking any day she'd turn and make her life her rule
She finally took control, and then it all went south
When the police showed up, she had a gun in her mouth
She then made the decision to try to figure it out
But she could never see through that vast, nebulous cloud
Confused and in a daze, she knew not where to go
She couldn't stop herself from spinning out of control
The cuts became deeper and the drugs became more often
From the choices she was making, she was building her own coffin
Everyone gave up when they saw that she had too
Her skin went pale and her lips turned blue
The doctors couldn't save her; they had been too late
And for the first time in long time she was truly doing great