Hey! Who Turned Out the #@%! Lights!

Autumn came and pushed the summer sun away, and I was plunged into darkness.

It happened while I was visiting my sister. It was a great winter visit and I was in love with my niece and nephew. But a few days before I was to leave — Boom! — it fell and anchored me to the bed. I asked my sister to take the kids to a baby sitter that day because I couldn’t deal with them. I couldn’t deal with anything except head under covers in a darkened room. True, I was being treated for depression, but the antidepressant, an SSRI, that had worked so well suddenly abandoned me. And that’s how I felt. Abandoned. I  saw fear in my sister’s eyes. She’d never seen me like this. It went on like this for two days, and I couldn’t leave when I’d planned. Pack! Forget it. I could barely brush my teeth.

In my darkness I remembered my doctor’s advice that I find practitioner who specialized in light therapy. This was not the first autumn/winter that an antidepressant had failed me. A few winters before that I did nothing but work, eat, sleep, and I did manage to take care of my cats, but not my beautifully lush plants, and when late spring arrived, I discovered that they were dead and as crisp and the Cheez-Its (R) I had been stuffing my face with. I made my way to my sister’s computer, found a site that sold light therapy products, and ordered a light box and a book on SAD, seasonal affective disorder, for myself. But Wait-There’s More-Click Here!

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Beginning…Again

There was a time when writing was my everything. It was plays. It was poems on napkins. Term papers. Thesis. Stories. Beginnings of novels. An agent. You could say I was on a track, on my way.

And then something changed, something happened and writing moved further and further from my center. Health challenges, a devastating fire, finances, you name it. The depression I had managed to stay well ahead of finally reached out and grabbed me by the ankles, and I went down for the count. You could say my voice was silenced.

I have a long-time friend, Judy Bolton-Fasman, a memoirist, and I admire her courage and honesty as a writer. I’m not used to writing about myself and my life. I’ve never had that kind of courage. But I’m going to cultivate it even as I continue with fiction. I’m going to go for broke, you could say.

Even now, as I write, I wonder if I should link this blog to my Facebook account. I don’t know. I haven’t decided. Twitter, yes, where I have more anonymity.

But for now, I begin.