I know people who deal with depression and I feel for them; it's a terrible fight. Somehow, I've always found my way out of the wallowing very quickly. But last night, I wrote this...
I don't think of myself as a depressed person or someone who suffers from depression. But I find myself occasionally weeping, silently crying at night. Thinking about all the times I've wondered why I didn't die in that car accident. I was supposed to die. I have suffered indescribable misery since then, increasing trials of my strength. I just have those moments when I wish I died that day. So I wouldn't remember the misery before. And I wouldn't experience the misery after.
But then the moment is gone. I am blessed. My struggles make me look for the brightness, the lightheartedness, the good news, the fun times.
And I try to forget those dark places. Rolling in a truck in the desert. Unspeakable things in a bathroom, in a boarder's room, in a church--things that should not happen to little girls; the cruel things done by people who are supposed to love a little girl, in a kitchen, a bathroom, on the street. Guilt for the girl I didn't (couldn't?) help. And I weep silently in the dark. And wonder...what if I died that day?
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