I write Letters to the Editor; I journal; I read newspapers, then wish I hadn’t. It feels strong to respond and challenge people, but it makes me more paranoid about the Church sending priests in black cars to “come and get me,” to kill me for telling their secrets.
I keep telling myself, “I am safe. I am safe.” But then I journal and don’t feel safe any more.
How do I process my grief?
Does suffering have any meaning?
Do we live in a random chaotic universe?
Is it time to re-evaluate my understanding of “God”?
This book is for anyone who has suffered a loss – of safety, of one’s home, of health, of a loved one or a relationship, or of one’s faith … and found themselves asking, “Why?” And then wondering, “Who am I asking?” and hoping they were not alone.
It’s only in looking back that I realise I was depressed these past months.
It’s only in looking back that not wanting anything more than sleeping on the weekends seems like a clue to a low mood.
It’s only in looking back that finding myself unable to work on my book or rejoin the choir seems telling and weeks of easy tears seem abnormal.
I think when you’re depressed it’s easy to miss it, even when you have a history. Maybe because you have a history. A little depression is just a common state of mind, so who’s to say when it is becoming a problem, when it is becoming “clinical.”
But today I went for a walk, even a little run; I enjoyed becoming breathless – it didn’t take much. I raised my face to the sun and my arms to the wind. I spread the fingers of my hands and felt the air between each one. I felt myself opening up, and wondered – not for the first time – where have I been?