Sometimes it sounds like other things. Well-meant things.
“Well, if you’ll just pray about it, you’ll be fine.”
“Just go get meds.”
“Stop thinking about your past!”
“Counseling will bring you back to your real self.”
“Pour it all into your journal and let it go.”
I’m not knocking all aspects of these suggestions, necessarily, but I do wish people could understand what I discovered when I went through clinical depression 14 years ago:
Depression isn’t all in your head.
I also discovered that the best advice I can give someone in depression is to find what helps him/her specifically, and do it.
All that said, while I didn’t write myself out of depression, I did find great comfort in wording my heart, my questions, my confusion.
it’s raining outside and inside me
the siren is crying like I wish I could
and my joys are out there in the rain
drowning like I sometimes do
there’s a steady screeching from another room
relentless, though it fades now and then
pitched in such a way
that I cringe at the sound
but I guess it’s all part of it somehow
almost like helplessness
almost like sorrow but not quite
music from somewhere tries to soothe
and I wish it could
I wish it could
I reach a limp hand toward something, anything
in a poor attempt at gaining strength
God, it’s raining
if only I could lie my head on my pillow
and rest from the pressing in
they’re counting on me
I could never let them down
the tree outside my window looms over my world
not bringing me fear but comfort
its giant branches poised willow-like
to hold me
and though it bends in the wind of this storm
it is strong enough for both of us
why does music search my soul thus?
would that I could escape such knowing
the cello and dulcimer see inside this heart
if only the pain would float away with the notes
and the rain could wash away the worry
I need to be alone
listen to the music
listen to the rain
rest under my tree
feel almost free
Writing didn’t cure me. Attention to my health from all angles (physical, mental, spiritual, emotional) is what pulled me through the deepest, darkest time of my life and let me live to tell about it. Writing helped me to process what was happening in my head and heart so I could understand it better and share it with you.
And now? I continue to word my story so others will have the courage to word theirs.
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