We all get down. God knows, I’ve had my share of depression, especially in the past three years. Although I try not to complain, there are times I really need to just unload on a sympathetic ear. I don’t want to dump on my kids—they are carrying their own loads after their dad’s death and don’t need to be worrying about me. My cousin recently visited, and said she worries about me, and maybe I should see a therapist, get counseling.

Eh, she’s from L.A.

Fact is, I come from a long line of survivors, people who have batted away the fastballs and moved on. We deal. We all find some way to cope. My dad chopped wood or built chicken coops, my mom cleaned or took long walks in the woods or by the lake.

I write.

When I write, I can expose terrible, horrible feelings I would never repeat to another human, and then, when all the venom is out, I hit “delete.” It feels wonderful. I can build worlds the way they should be, develop characters with more problems (and more strength) than I have, and then give them a happy ending and feel relieved. I can be everything I’m not, relive old feelings that have gone dormant, remember the good times—and the bad, and in doing so, I am cleansed.

When life is at its darkest, I thank God for giving me this gift, and know even if life throws the worst at me—which it has—I have the power to overcome anything.

 

I’m still struggling.

But I’m surviving.