I know for fact that two of my friends are going through a bad patch. I also know for fact that all of us have at some point been through bad patches. It's not fun. It's dreadful.

I can honestly say that I've probably been clinically depressed a couple of times in my life - when kick-ass meds would've been a good thing.

Leaving Kansas City was the first time I remember unraveling into a stupor of morosity. Um, I just made up that perfect word. I had to - because when one becomes utterly paralytically depressed there are no words for it - the helplessness, the dark, the vortex of shame and... well, that about does it - helplessness and shame shrouded in dark that is darker than dark.

The second time was after my mother died.

I've had other close calls with depression, but these are the two that had a paralyzing effect on me. Hours and days and weeks were lost in the muddled dark. I walked through life wishing there was Braille for my feet to lead me to a place of comfort.


*****


I wonder how many of us could look back on our lives and say, "Yup. This is how I thought it would be. Everything I dreamed about came true. My life has been perfect."

Don't even try to convince me. Don't go there. I'll call you a big fat liar, liar pants on fire.


*****


When I was handed my diagnosis, my life changed in many ways. Oh sure, there are times I pat tears when a squeegee would be more effective, but for the most part, sad moments are just that... moments. I decided to never waste another donkey-nose moment on regrets or sad thoughts to gobble up my precious time.

A dear friend, Joan Taber, recently shared these comments on my blog:

My mother said more than once that her illness had brought out the best in her.

You remind me of her. (That's a compliment, my sister.)

Thank you Joan, very much. Your mother was so remarkable that I can hardly fathom a comparison... but I'll take your compliment with bashful gratitude.


*****


Mind you, I'm still a pain in the buttocks and I laugh too loud and will always dress like the poor relations and miss my children madly... but my diagnosis and prognosis have ended up being a wonderful gift - ending my life somewhat on my own terms with the newly honed acceptance that I will always have to tinker with my expectations.


P.S. I should've done my homework. Morosity is a real word! Stoopid spellcheck.





As always, thanks for stopping by.