I have had no compulsion to write for years, which is strange because I have a cabinet full of journals that I began in my teens and take me through my late twenties. It’s easy to blame the chaos that is life, but it’s much more likely been a simple act of whistling and humming in the dark.
Why write then? Well, I live with Depression. Somedays, or years, we live together easier than others. For over 16 years, Wellbutrin has made that relationship navigable. Recently, however, it has been a bit rocky – the living part of it, that is. So, because my husband and sons (among others) feel suicide is a poor solution to the problem, I am trying everything else: medication adjustments, psychiatrist appointments, twice weekly therapy appointments, extra help around the house, ridiculously over-the-top exercise, and, of course, blogging.
Some days, I think it helps.