Miraculous
Situational depression was the diagnosis. Years ago, I sat in a psychiatrist's office and that label was slapped on me. It felt like a slap, at least. I didn't know what she was talking about. I was there to help my then husband, not myself--never myself. I hadn't asked for her diagnosis. She, however, was concerned not just about him but about me, too, and asked me to fill out some forms and answer some questions. Back then, I didn't know how to exist for myself but she tried to help me. She wanted me to take some medication until it passed. I refused. That's what he did, not me. I would not take drugs to fix my problems. I wonder what things would have been like if I had listened. But I didn't. So the next 15 years went by and here I am. She was right. I was right, too, maybe, about not getting on the medicine. Or maybe not. It's very sticky, depression. It's very tricky, too. It feels like fog for me, but when the fog is there long enough I can'