A Thief Visits.

*Cross posted from my other blog*

Gentle Reader,

In the last year, I've come to some pretty hard realizations. One of them is how much depression has stolen from me. I once painted as a hobby. It has literally been six years since I picked up a paint brush and sat down at a canvas. I once was something of a sketch and portraiture artist. It haven't done an actual portrait of a person or a still life in over a year, prior to that it was almost six years.

Now, writing is depression's target. I'm going to apologize for the dark tone that this blog is going take. But, I'm not writing the darkest material here. That is going into my therapy work. And it has been arduous work. Still, I am going to fight this thief as hard as I would if someone physically broke into my home. It was just really demoralizing to see how my anxieties had moved from what if I put the horrors I have kept secret and tried to just 'manage' the life consequences into pictures (because gods forbid if I actually made art to begin with) and someone found out.

Depression is only part of the battle that I am waging in my head. I've posttraumatic stress disorder and a laundry list of anxieties that go together with what caused my PTSD. I will not, however, give this up. As a child, I promised my great-grandmother that I was going to grow up and be an author. I promised her I wasn't going to give that up on her deathbed. I was eight at the time. And when my grandfather was dying, I made the same promise approximately three years ago. Same promise to my grandmother before dementia had its way with her.

I have been asked how I lived through so much trauma. It was simple, I saw no other option. Depression fooled me into thinking that giving up things I love was an option for survival. I realized now, just this last week, that is a slow death. So, I'm doing my therapy work and that includes looking at things like picking up the paint brush again. Because I don't die. Depression is not going to kill me. It is not going to kill my spirit.

If I must, I will paint and write and sing out of spite. I will pound out every letter in fury. I will not let depression steal THIS from me, what has been my life long dream. And, I will take back everything that it has stolen. The only thing I can't reclaim is time. So be it, I don't need it. I'm going to live a long life anyways because when I expire, it will be because I've accomplished all of my dreams.