Writing is the best therapy I have found. Not just the act of writing or creating, but having the goal of accomplishing something with my art has had the most positive effect on my clinical depression. I’m not healed, I’m still medicated and I still have lows, but being able to see past tomorrow has given me hope, something that had been lacking in my life for so long.
And yet the struggle continues on a daily basis. From day to day I have to scrounge up the motivation and courage to continue when it is so much easier to go throughout my day in a daze, like a zombie fulfilling the needs of my children yet missing out on experiencing them, on being a part of their lives rather than an automaton that makes sure they fed and clothed.
And then to find out that depression isn’t the only thing I suffer from, that I am actually bi-polar and have been misdiagnosed and mis-medicated for several years. Now clinging to my goals isn’t enough anymore, but it’s something. I keep breathing because I have a plan, a purpose, a goal for something I love.
But what happens when the inevitable low comes and I no longer have the passion? I don’t know. I don’t have answers. I am still searching myself. I chuckle because I wrote the first two paragraphs of this post months ago, before my diagnoses, before my partial hospital treatment, before real therapy. And yet I don’t delete it because in the moment it was true. Whether or not it is the best therapy still, I don’t know. But it still works when it works. It’s still a skill in my repertoire.