Writing for me is a way to unravel life’s mysteries. It is a way to climb to the peak of that enormous mountain and have a clear view of the world unlike any other.

So I write, for now, for therapeutic purposes: to learn, to grow, to evaluate, to understand, to elevate. I hope one day to find my niche in writing as a profession, but for now, I write for myself.

I’m 35 years old now, and adult by all definitions of the word. Yet, I find myself far from the life I always envisioned growing up.

As a child, I thought I would marry at 21. I never had aspirations for a career, but never thought of the alternative either… or maybe it was a given in my mind that I would be a stay at home mom. I don’t remember.

Depression has played a huge, unexpected roll in my life. It has thwarted me and wriggled it’s way in when I never, knew or had an inkling that I might need to defend myself. I never imagined that I would come to know it, live with it in the close quarters of my mind. I sometimes wonder what my life would be like without it.

At my low points, I dwell on thoughts that I have made my fair share of foolish choices. I have wasted time when, deep down, I knew I should be doing different. When I’m doing well, I can look back and see those choices and times with a clarity that brings knowledge, happiness, and confidence in my decisions moving forward. I find it interesting that both points of view are true, but one carries with it hope, the other despair.

Often, I can’t clearly see what depression’s effects have been, and maybe by writing about it I will be able to see.

Groovin’ on the feeling: Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell (Click to listen)


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