I had a rough morning this morning. That’s OK. I have about 300 or so of them a year. It’s my normal. I know how to push myself past the depression and get going. It’s a routine that serves me well. Some time in the bible. Some time meditating. Some time writing poetry. About 30 – 45 minutes or so each morning.

It’s not gone after that, but it’s pushed back into its cave and I can go on. Some days, it behaves very nicely, stays in the cave and I don’t hear a whimper. Other days it seems to resent being marginalized and I can hear it muttering threats all day. But pretty much, it stays put while I get about my business.

I was having lunch with my friend Jon the other day and he asked me if it helped me writing about my depression. And the answer is, yes, it does. But that’s only one reason I write about it.

It is no secret to anyone who knows me, or who has spent much time reading on my blog, that I use poetry less as art or literature, than as a way to sort out things in my head and heart. The truth is that I am often not very glib with the language of feelings. There was a point, about a decade ago, where I was downright stifled in my ability to say what I feeling. The hows of how I got there are not that important. The fact that I had gotten there is. In a way, I liken it to having had a stroke, only it affected my ability to feel and express my feelings. I practically had to relearn how to recognize and relate my feelings all over again.

Thank goodness for persistent therapists. Mine pushed me, twisted me, turned me inside out, made me look at a lot of uncomfortable stuff, and we came to the place where we recognized that part of the problem was my depression. We did all the things you do to learn to battle depression, but she also put me on kind of a rehab, helping me regain my ability to fully recognize and express not just the basic feelings, but the more subtle ones. Getting back to poetry was part of that process. It’s still part of how I sort my world out.

In my house, particularly with my Dad, the “D” word was never used. And therapists? Forget about it. Therapists were for Hollywood and whackos. Not us real people. So when I started going to one, well it wasn’t exactly encouraged. I kept it quiet. But I pounded away at it. Week after week for three and a half years. And for another year after I moved from Virginia to Vermont. I still check in now and again to make sure I am on good paths, or to help me deal with anything that has the potential to be overwhelming.

I kept it quiet unless someone came to me dealing with the same things. Then I talked about my journey and my struggles and how getting the tools to fight it can change life and make it a joy again. And it made a difference. And so, I began to talk about it now and again in my church, when it fit. And it made a difference. One or two people at a time, but it made the uncomfortableness of talking about it worthwhile.

I wrote about her here for the first time a few months ago. It was after a discussion with someone here in my neck of the woods where I had talked about how Depression doesn’t stop you. There’s millions of us functioning just fine thank you. You’d never know we were battling it because we don’t fit the stereotype of the person that can’t get out of bed and barely functions. Not us. We’re taking the kids to ball games, leading committees at church and in the community, are strong, capable co-workers, but…. and here’s the but… it’s damned hard. And people don’t get that. So I wrote my first piece.

And I was flat out stunned at the response. I don’t know what you people did or who you passed it on to, but the response and readership was many, many times what my blog normally has. I got all kinds of notes and emails (I don’t get very many on a normal day.). And I realized that there are a lot more of us in this battle than I knew. A LOT more.

And I found that somehow, having someone put it out there, helps. So I’ve written a few more pieces, as I see or learn something about my own situation that might resonate. And true to that first one. It generally does.

So the second part of the answer to Jon’s question is yes, it helps me write about it because it matters to people. It evidently helps some of you, even if it just assures you that you are not alone.

One of the things I think most of us want out of life is to make a difference. It doesn’t seem to matter where we live, what our religion is, or what level of society we come from, we want to change things around us for the better. We want our lives to have meaning. And if you can turn your own suffering into something that makes a difference, then that gives the suffering and work to overcome it, value. It takes something lousy, painful and hard, and gives it meaning.

And so I write. It will never be comfortable. It will never be easy. But it’s part of my war. It helps me. And hopefully, it helps some others as well. I am closing in on a small book’s worth of essays and poems on depression and I’ll likely compile it all in the fall. My hope is that I can portray it the way I see it – that depression is a handicap, not a mark of being less a person, or less strong. Hardly that. It’s a battle. And I want to go from being a drudge grunt in the battle, which is where I’ve been most of the past decade, to a joyous warrior, on the front line, charging into battle.

Come join me.

Be well. Travel wisely.

Tom