Depression Vs. Writing, and Why She's My Saving Grace

Depression is a never-ending war constantly waging inside you. Sure, some days are better than others, letting the battle-weary soldiers rest, but it's always there. It never truly goes away. 

A lot of people who haven't suffered from depression thinks it's merely feeling sad. Ha - if only it were that simple. 

Yes, that's part of it, but it's also so much more than that. It's a sadness so profound that it actually leaves you numb. So numb you have no will to do anything, you want to cry - maybe eventually you even do - but for the most part you are only stuck. Trapped in a cage of flesh, lost in a sea of emotion - melancholy, worthlessness, even anger, and so many others - storming through you like a juggernaut. You're good at hiding it from others, so no one knows. But you just feel so... Everything encapsulated together... 


The fear and sorrowful knowing you mean so little to those around you. Maybe it's true, maybe it isn't, but to you it's the truest thing in the universe. And maybe you feel that way because of how strongly you feel for others, knowing it's always unrequited. You wonder what the point is? 

Is there a point? 

Or is it just to live one miserable day after the next, hoping the sun breaks past the dismal dark? 

Except it never does. 

You're just stuck. Forcing yourself to smile and play a game you don't want to, keeping up the facade so those that matter don't realize how screwed up you really are. 

My little girl saves me from the edge. She's the greatest blessing I have, and if not for her, honestly, I don't think I'd be here typing this. She gives my world color where there's so many black and grey, and I could cry at how much I love her. God's granted me a beautiful gift, and I'm not a saint - far from it - but I intend to thank him for it every day. No matter how hopeless it seems because with her and His sheltering grace, through the numbness I feel the smallest prick of hope. And it's enough to carry me through. 

Granted, it doesn't bode well for my writing. Sometimes, especially the horrible days, it's hard to muster up the will to even look at my work. What's the point? I'm just wasting time writing it, aren't I? It's never going to go anywhere - right? The negativity one feels while in the throes of depression is truly astounding. 

Sometimes it's a battle to type that first word. That second word. Maybe I get the third word typed before I sigh and lean back, stare up at the ceiling. Just sit there. Wondering. Contemplating. Would anyone REALLY care...?

I hear her laugh, I hear her shout my name - "Mommy, Mommy!"

The darkness ebbs away, and I look at her. Warmth spears the numbness and chases it away, and my heart swells with love so magnificent... 

She smiles and I smile back - a real smile. She's my saving grace, and I want her to be proud of me. I want to be the best I can for her. So I write some more, and then a little bit more after that, and for a moment, the darkness edges away. 

I'm okay.

God is with me, and I can beat this. One battle at a time. For her. 



Dancing Demons Pg 99 Excerpt

Disclaimer: Image does not belong to me. Unsure of artist.
             I spin, eyes wide as they land on a shadowed figure. Hooded in some kind of dark-colored jacket with equally as dark gloves covering his hands. Tall. Svelte. Still. The figure, male from the lack of swell and curve, doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. My breath sounds short and rattled, even to myself.

“Who – who are you?”

A horrible silence hammers away at my ears. No shrieking wind, no awful calls from the dreadful forest. Only a much more harrowing quiet that leaves me terrified. Where’s the monster that always craves my death and makes me writhe in agony as it rips me apart?

Violent trembles quake through my small frame, hard enough that when I take a step toward the hooded figure, my balance is unstable. Undergrowth, fallen branches, and rocks pierce my bare feet, cutting through the fragile flesh with searing heat. I curse the sharp pain, the stale night, and the thick mist that covers the forest floor like a razor-laced woolen blanket. Still, I keep going.

Suddenly, the figure turns, walking into the forest without the loud crunch of desiccated leaves, snapping twigs, or blind feet.

“Hey! Hey, wait!” I shout, hurrying to catch up and reach the mysterious figure. Rocks, undergrowth, and branches forgotten – all but running, and still I only catch the briefest glimpse of a silhouette, as the figure walks through the obsidian woods, the silver vapor closing around him.

It frightens me. I run forward, calling after him. The whispers and chitter-chatter come alive, sharp and piercing through the night’s silence. I run harder. My heart pounds and my skin burns hot. Sweat beads my flesh despite the chill silver swirling around, pressing against me like small, razor fine diamonds. Threatening, but never breaking the skin.

 © Copyright 2014 Katie S. Taylor

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