writing is cathartic

The mood ring she wore was black; it had been black for weeks. Other than her tired eyes it was the only clue that something was wrong. Something was desperately wrong. Sleepless nights and mornings when she awoke more tired then when she went to sleep. The mask worked for a couple of weeks, now it was harder to wear. Her tears washed it off as they came more frequently and in larger quantity than before. Hopeless feelings wouldn’t leave her alone. Neither would the headaches that made her cry herself to sleep. Still she felt she could get through this on her own. She had to. She held her heart in two hands. She stood in the ruins of her broken life. She had to mend her heart. She had to clean up the mess. Her life, not his, was the on that was broken.

Why was she so happy when he was in her life? Why can’t she be happy with herself? Why can’t he be sad without her? Why does that stupid song on the radio always speak to her soul? Why does it always bring the tears? Why did I care…

I wrote this over 12 years ago when I was going through depression. I look back grateful I no longer feel this way and in awe that I made it through. I remember wanting life to end, but I didn’t believe I would go Home using that key. The nurturing part of me wants to go back 12 years and put my arms around her and let her know I love her now more than I did then. How proud I am of the way she fumbled through life and built an amazing character. How I wouldn’t have the strength I have today had she not fallen and struggled to get up again and again. I would thank her for not giving up and following her heart, no matter how much it hurt. More than anything I’m grateful that in her despair she found enough hope to give God her heart and allow Him to mend it.