My most read post on this blog, by far, is a piece of prose talking about depression. Months after I wrote it, it still pops up some days as the most read thing here. And my poems about depression tend to have higher readership and more comments than my other topics. Clearly there are a lot of other people who wrestle with it.

Some people share their own stories. Some just say thank you. Others add things they have learned in their own battles. But the most amazing thing, the thing that boggles my mind, is how many people, friends, and perfect strangers, write me private notes asking if I am OK.

I am OK.

Many of the things I write about depression, no matter how raw they seem, are memory poems. There was indeed a time that I was not OK. Not OK at all. There were years of living in a black place, where depression swallowed my life. I look back at those years and wondered how I functioned. Because I did function. I went to work every day. I never missed a deadline. I accomplished a lot of things. But it was a struggle like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The years of medication and therapy to claw my way back to joy were indescribably hard. (Despite the fact that I keep trying to describe them.).

That time, and that journey back colored my life, and always will. The memory of the emotions and the battle will always be with me.

But that phase of my depression, the one that inspires poetry and dark words, is gone.

The depression itself is not gone. It never will be. That’s the truth.  It lingers like a vulture, waiting for times of weakness and exhaustion. Some days it is a dark cloud over my day. The chemicals that are part of the cause of depression will likely always be slightly out of balance. But I have fought a good battle. I had two good therapists, two good pastors. I worked hard. I battled my demons and hacked my way through the thickets and finally found the sun.

Now, it lingers on the fringes, always threatening, but I am well armed. If it comes to close, I raise my sword, waggle it a bit as if I really am a warrior (which I am not) and it slithers away.

Along the way, I learned about the power of the moment. How living in the moment helps keep the beast away. It grounds you so that the emotions of the moment come and go as they are supposed to. The black feeling is not given the power to persist. If things are bad, I let them be bad, but I remind myself that everything is not bad. There are good things around to savor and be thankful for.

It’s a discipline like no other, to live in the moment, and it’s not easy. I’d even venture to say it’s not natural.

Eastern religions tend to emphasize living in the moment more than Christianity. Yet it is not a foreign concept to Christianity either. When Moses and the Israelites were in the desert, God gave them Mana. It showed up each morning. You could not save it because it went bad after a day. So they had to live in faith in the moment. Jesus spoke of sparrows and the glory of the flower. All in the moment and held up as an example. Knowing it’s a spiritual discipline, fueled by something larger than myself, has helped me stay the path. I don’t think I could do it alone.

And so when the darkness threatens, I stop. Sometimes I even yell (in my mind, or if I am alone, out loud.). “Stop!” I cry. What is the reality, I ask? Not the fear. Not the feeling. The reality. The reality is always filled with blessings. A roof over my head. Interesting and fulfilling work. Great kids. A woman in my life who I love and who loves me. The dark things are just a bad moment. Those things are lasting. Right this morning, as I write this, I have a delicious cup of coffee in front of me. I have an amazing omelet and some sautéed spinach in front of me as I sit in my favorite diner, Pawlet Station. There’s harder stuff ahead in my day, but that’s what’s real right now. And it’s wonderful.

Poetry is sometimes good for headline news. At times, I write about what is going on right now, trying to make sense of it the way I do it best, by thinking and writing my way through it. But at other times, it is not the daily news. It is ancient history. But important history. Worth remembering. Worth sorting out.

Why?

Because I have learned this – sharing our struggles has value. Not because it brings on the pity party, but because it allows others to know they are not alone. Because it sharing often prompts others to think their way through their own battles.

I was not far into my separation and divorce when a pastor I know asked if I would be willing to talk to a man in his congregation who was considering divorce about my own experience. I have to tell you, that was the last thing I wanted to do. The absolute last thing. I was still rawer than raw. I was in the hardest part of my own battle with depression and grief. But the pastor believed hearing that side of my story would help this man.

So I did it. It was like pouring emotional Merthiolate (for my younger readers who never had to deal with Merthiolate, it’s tincture of iodine, that bright orange stuff your parents and grandparents used to put on cuts. Burns like hell, but it kills bacteria like nothing else.) onto a huge open sore. I hurt. I cried. I did it. And it did help him. And in the long run, it helped me too. It gave my battle purpose. It allowed my pain and darkness and confusion to have value, to help someone else.

And that’s part of why I write of such things. It’s my way of moving the battle. Of taking it to the demon depression (Or whatever demon I am writing about at the time.) rather than letting depression dictate the terms of battle. Because if my writing helps someone else in their battle, then together we are pushing that lurking vulture a little further away one poem, one thought, one prayer at a time.

But me? I’m OK. That vulture can leer all he wants, I’m going to leave him hungry.

Be well. Travel Wisely.

Tom