The Valley

Look around…can you see? Trees and rocks and plants. Over there in the shadow of those old oak trees lies a stream. It’s been here forever-or as close to forever as you and I could imagine. Indian children once played in that stream, their tribe bathed in it, drew water from it, drew life itself from it. They lived up there on the rise in the shelter of that mighty hill. You know they planted corn here, and squash and beans too. They hunted deer and rabbit and everything else that traverses these woods. God put them here for a reason, though they didn’t know God then. But they knew that they’d been blessed to be put here.

Close your eyes, sharpen your ears and listen to the muffled sounds. With so much to dampen the noise around us it’s easy to miss hearing everything that’s going on in these woods. The squirrels busily looking for food, finding it and tentatively digging a spot to place it-to store his good fortune.

A rabbit is resting in her warren, just over there beneath the root of a fallen gum tree. She has just given birth-life again-many in fact, five or six little ones for her to nurture. The babies are there, eyes tightly shut, furless, helpless and completely innocent of the world just outside the small entrance to their home. So unaware of the fox or the hawk, the cougar and the bear, all those other creatures that God put here, right beside the Indians.

Can you hear the leaves in the trees? They brush each other in the wake of the breeze and make music. Whether we realize it or not, they speak to our souls on a level we don’t appreciate. Listen to them and remember their songs, they are fleeting just like us and without them our souls would suffer.

Still have your eyes shut? Can you hear the stream? There are several large boulders rising from the water. The clear, cold water never stops ebbing alongside the blues and grays of those massive rocks. Rocks worn smooth by running water from many millennia. Those boulders are witnesses to many things. So many moons, too numerous to count, to animals perching on them long enough to take a sip of water from the stream or to bask in the warm sunshine on brisk days. They’ve witnessed humans-all kinds of people from all ages. They’ve witnessed birth, life and death. They’ve been warmed by the sun during drought and they’ve hidden beneath rushing torrents of flooding. At the base of those boulders where the stream tugs and pushes, the water is slowed and in those somewhat stiller places are tiny crawfish and tadpoles. Tiny fish call the bellies of these boulders home. They swim and dart through the stream, sometimes fighting against the current of the water, searching for whatever it is they eat. After feeding they return to the safety of that big boulder.

Do you smell the richness of the earth? Keep your eyes shut and move a step…the scent is slightly different. A unique blend of everything God put here. That’s something else…did you notice the breeze? It’s nothing like the wind that stirs on top of the mountain. Here the breeze swirls around you, caressing you, reminding you to reach out with all your senses and notice things. The leaves and needles from last year’s fall are molding underfoot, being slowly reclaimed by their great host.

Do you smell the wildflowers? They’re delicate warm scent is dancing on the breeze. They’re subtle too; not flashy like some flowers. In this valley they grow in small bursts of color where the sun can reach them and warm them. Growing in small clumps, they remind us life is small and fleeting. They also tell us that no matter where we are, God is with us. Can you smell the hearty pine and the pungent cedar? Evergreens―always awake even through the cold of winter; they remind us in the depths of winter that there is still life here. Sentries for the forest; always present they provide the green when all the other trees sleep.

Now open your eyes and look around. The valley isn’t a hole we’re in―it’s not a low spot in life―it is shelter. It allows us to stop and reflect, to see everything around us. True, it doesn’t have the same majesty and glory like being at the top of that mountain. But the valley is renewal, with the stream and the rich earth and the plants and animals-it’s to cherished because without the valley, we wouldn’t understand and couldn’t appreciate the mountain peak.



Part II

Confliction incarnate was what sat quietly eating a bowl of kimchi (fermented cabbage soup) on the park bench that day.  Kyung Soon O'Malley...the only child of three generations off-the-boat, town Mayor Ronald O'Malley and his beautiful Korean wife Kyung Mi.  Kyung Soon was a beautiful but volatile creature.  Having inherited her shocking red hair and pale skin from her father and the straight, thick hair texture from her mother along with slightly slanted brown eyes, she was the epitome of all people born Irish-Korean. 

Kyung Soon had been brought up in a strange environment.  Her mother was all quiet--exuding the gentile, peaceful personality of a docile housewife while her father was Irish to the core.  The result was born in Kyung Soon.  She carried herself with a regal shyness born of empires.  However, that composure could fracture and splinter in an instant.  A wicked tempest brewed under her skin and it took merely a hint of provocation to unleash it. 

Kyung Soon, now 22, had recently begun working at the only bank in town.  She was using her lunch hour to both eat her lunch and walk her white miniature poodle named Kashi.  This wasn't a problem as she only lived one town block from the bank.  Dressed in a fancy pale blue linen suit, Kyung Soon was sitting on a park bench in the shade of an oak tree.  She had spread a white linen napkin (embroidered with the O'Malley coat of arms) across her lap and was eating her kimchi from a fancy porcelain crock.  Kashi sat at her heels, barking randomly at the passersby.  First there was the odd jogger, then an old lady with the squeaky walker, followed up by a couple of young mothers pushing their wailing toddlers in strollers.

Kyung Soon ignored her dog as it barked and instead relished every bite of her lunchtime treat.  Kimchi made using her mother's old family recipe was a rare treat.  Most days her mother cooked for the delight and happiness of her father.  So a typical meal in her home was more often Shepherds pie or boiled potatoes with cabbage.

Kyung Soon had inherited a particularly garish piece of jewelry from her Irish grandmother whose tastes had ran somewhat eccentric when she had been alive.  But Kyung Soon loved the heavy silver necklace and it's odd hanging bauble in a way that most couldn't understand.  Since Kyung Soon had a fantastic lineage it also stood to reason she would be allowed to have unusual tastes' in bling.  So, while the long, heavy silver chain strung round her dainty pale neck stood in sharp contrast to her features, it also pointed out her familial diversity.    It contained several faux round emeralds set into the chain at varying intervals and one large, rectangular faux sapphire set in the center of a small wooden pendant-clearly in the shape of an Irish pub sign.  It was as every bit heavy as it looked and though its overall weight and craftsmanship made it solid and strong, the clasp that connected the ends was oddly old and frail.

When Jolly the squirrel spied the jewels as they sparkled in the sporadic dappled sunshine, he knew in an instant he had to have it.

Part I

Jolly was by far one of the most curious and clueless of his kind.  An Eastern Gray squirrel with a penchant for the shiney, he was the first of his litter mates to half-climb, half-fall out of the nest his parents had built high in the arms of a large oak tree.  His mother was the one to save him from the clutches of a large brown dog who was bent on killing him.  While he didn't realize the danger he was in, he was none the less surprised and delighted by his mother's show of enthusiasm when she rescued him.  His litter mates had ran up and down the limbs of their great tree, chirpping and squeaking and making all manner of noises.  They did this in an effort to try and distract the dog, encourage their mother and save their less than intuitive brother.  When she finally managed to get him safely to the tree, just beyond the jaws of the monster, she couldn't decide who needed the chewing out more-her offspring for his unintelligent actions or the dog that had tried to eat him.

When questioned, for he still was unaware he'd done anything wrong, Jolly confessed that it had been a shiney candy wrapper blowing in the wind that had originally caught his attention.  His love of bling had almost been the undoing of both he and his mother.  His mother had gone a little grayer that day-if such a thing was possible.

Within weeks of his first brush with death he'd managed to accumulate quite a few things whose glimmer and sparkle had caught his attention.  Candy wrappers-that smelled just as good as they looked along with a few loose coins and a ladies hair clip.  A small shiney quartz stone with sharp edges that sparkled when the sun hit it just so and a large, silver paper clip he'd discovered near a park bench.  While his littermates learned the art of locating and collecting food, Jolly was absentmindely discovering the joys of trash cans, gutters and the nearby electrical substation.

It was on a beautiful spring day when he and his family were skittering around the park, his parents busily teaching the family ways to survive everything from cat attacks, avoiding flying predators and Papa Squirrels top three reasons to avoid snakes when Jolly's eyes were suddenly caught by the bright glinter of a ladies necklace.  Since his parents had failed to mention humans among the list of "to be feared and avoided" he had no reservations concerning approaching her and appropriating what he thought was a pretty sparkle.   Little did he know that his actions and their unfortunate results would end up turning the world of the local human populace upside down for a time.

305 Spruce Street

The greeting was nearly always the same, "Hi, Hon!" as any of the grandchildren walked through the door.  We never knocked-we just walked right in.  Through the glass-slatted door that opened in the kitchen and just to the right into the living room where we would all stop and turn to our right long enough to hug our Grandma who sat in her blue recliner.  Sometimes a short line would form and Grandma seemed to be a bottleneck but we'd all take turns hugging her.  She always smiled at us---never a scowl or frown.  Then, as our Paw-paw who sat across the way started teasing us, we would make our way to the other side of the living room.  He would call us each by nickname---never by our given name.  The grandkids would allow the adults to sit in the swan-necked chair or on the stiff red couch.  The kids all sat on the floor Indian style, spread haphazardly around the room.  There we would spend a few minutes answering questions about how we were or what we'd recently learned in school.  After the first few cursory minutes the kids would each begin the inquiry.  Was there anything to eat?  Most often it was cookies-Fudge Stripes, Oreos or chocolate chip...always in the cookie jar in the kitchen.  Paw-paws after-dinner mints, peppermints or lemon drops could be found in the glass candy dish that sat on the stereo in the living room.  On hot summer days there were ice pops, ice cream sandwiches or ice milk.  And on the really good visits there were fresh pecan pies, pound cakes or chocolate cake.  We drank Coca-Cola from glass bottles, fresh homemade lemonade or iced tea. 

It was a good thing that we had plenty of cool drinks and treats around.  Our Paw-paw didn't want an air conditioner installed in his house.  He insisted he couldn't breathe in air conditioned air.  As a result their windows were always full of box fans.  Somedays it was so hot in that little brick house that we would end up moving outside to sit in the shade on the carport in metal lawn chairs.  The kids would fight or take turns (depending on our mood and whether or not there were nearby adults) swinging just behind the house in the swing made from an old ferris wheel seat.  The swing was metal mesh and heavy.  Most often it was cool to the touch since it was situated in the shade of an old gum tree.  It was mounted on large metal pipes that were fitted together and put into the ground in cement, Paw-paw would paint them silver every once in a while to keep them shiney.  The swing was painted whatever color Paw-paw had painted the ceiling of the carport.  We'd beg the adults to push us and the lucky times they did we rode high.  We would all stretch our legs out far and try to touch one of the low-hanging leaves on the gum tree.  When that old swing would start creaking and groaning from use our Grandma would take a swipe of Crisco and put it on the hinges to stop the squeaking.  Our grandparents carport was more than just a place to park the car.  There were chairs sitting out there and visiting was something done on a regular basis.  That was when people still visited each other.  It was nothing to be sitting on the carport having a talk and have a great aunt or uncle pull up for a visit.  Pretty soon the carport would be spilling over with visitors and the adults would be hollaring at the kids to shut the kitchen door because they were letting flies in.

I recall a few times the car being backed out from the carport and setting up the handmade wooden quilting frame for the ladies to work on quilts together.  Aunts and great-Aunts would gather in wooden folding chairs and sit there for hours.  They patiently stitched and talked and us younger girls would sit down long enough to pull through a few perfunctory stitches before running off to play in the yard.  I don't know how many quilts were made on that old quilting frame.  The frame, along with a wonderful old rocking chair and several other neat things at Grandma's house were handmade by my great-grandfather.  It seems that back then there were alot more "things" around a person's house that could tell a story.  Not like today's world where things are purchased on the fly and have no personal connection.  I recall several quilts that those ladies made that were special and very unique.  Crazy quilts and log-cabin quilts made from the old scraps of clothes that were threadbare or ready to retire.  Patches from my Paw-paws Coca-Cola work shirts were sewn into those quilts along with bits and pieces of clothes from other family members.  We could look at those quilts and feel as though we had part ownership in them.  Each of those quilts told a story and they seemed warmer as a result.

My grandparents yard was a good size but I always thought it was huge.  But I suppose that's what a child's eye can see.  The vast expanse of sloping green grass was broken a little over halfway across the back yard by the imposing pecan tree.  The tree was big and had low-growing limbs that we all itched to climb on but we weren't allowed to climb that tree.  Half the yard was fenced in-this was to keep neighborhood kids out or to try and keep grandkids in-maybe a bit of both.  Two mature cherry trees in the far corner of the yard produced unbelievable amounts of cherries and Grandma would bake pies and make cherry preserves.  Grandma's kitchen was always hot and steamy when she canned.  For a number of years there were two plum trees she also made preserves from but I recall hearing adults complain about them.  Apparently the wasps and yellow jackets would hover over the over-ripened fruit that had fallen on the ground.  Eventually those trees were cut down.

During the day if we were outside with her, our Grandma would tell us the names of the birds as they flew through or landed in the yard.  When we were young and didn't know any better she would tell us we could catch a bird if we could put salt on their tail.  There is absolutely no telling how much salt we ended up dumping in that back yard in our bid to catch a bird.  On summer evenings we would wait for the lightening bugs to appear and then we would run around catching them-it was like winning the lottery.  We would fill up a mason jar with those things and watch in amazement as they lit up time and again.

The far left corner of the back yard held a homemade brick pit for cooking barbecue but I don't recall ever seeing it used.  I did hear stories about how my Grandfather's clothes once caught on fire but I'm not sure if the barbeque caused the accident.  Another highlight of the yard was the clothesline and the poles that presented climbing challenges.  I can only speculate the number of times we hung from the ends of those giant "T" poles.   We would take turns shimmying up and down them every chance we got.  Grandma used her clothesline whenever she could because running the clothes dryer was expensive.  It would also heat the kitchen up something aweful.  Add to that the gas stove in the kitchen and you could imagine the heat inside.  Grandma cooked on it every day.  Her kitchen was always full of the smells of a good Southern cook.  Pawpaw would cook breakfast on the weekends-which was always a scream because he would lace up in one of Grandma's old cooking aprons.  He was tall but had a slight belly that the apron would stretch over.  During one such breakfast I remember Grandma loaded up her piece of toast with a huge dollup of her homemade cherry preserves.  I commented that she put too much on her toast and that our mom didn't allow us to eat that much.  Her response was that she liked to taste it on her toast and she didn't skimp on jelly.  Grandma kept a lazy Susan on one end of the table and on it were stored all sorts of condiments along with jelly and jam. 

I remember the day my Grandparents bought a new dining room table to put in their kitchen.  Grandma promptly covered the table with a plastic table cloth to protect it.  I also remember them sitting down to breakfast together and watching as Grandma set out Corelle cups with saucers for them to have their coffee.  I thought it seemed awefully formal to put out a dish to catch runoff coffee when you already had a perfectly handy plastic table cloth to do the job for you.  But I suppose that was something else they had-a set of niceties instilled into them by another era.  Grandma would always pour Paw-paw his coffee and refill it for him while we were sitting at the table.  As a side note, dishes were also washed, dried and put away after every meal and definitely before everyone went to bed (boy would she freak at my house!).

It's strange how some things stick with us.  The little things that we recall.  Like the Reader's Digests magazines sitting on a skinny iron table in the only bathroom they had.  Grandma kept a notepad and a Websters Dictionary in there too.  She would write down any new words she might come across in her reading and look them up-so she could commit them to memory.  That old dictionary had quite a few miles on it.  There was an old metal bell mounted on a plaque that was placed high on the wall outside the bathroom.  It had some poem written on the plaque about using the bathroom.  Ringing the bell was supposedly a nice way to remind the person in the bathroom that there were others that needed to use it.  Ringing it constantly (which is what we kids did) was just plain annoying.  We never had a bell at my house-we just yelled through the bathroom door at whoever was on the other side to hurry up.

When we were allowed to spend the night I always slept in the front guest room.  Grandma had a single bed in her sewing room on the back side of the house but it was usually covered in sewing implements.  So I slept in the front room where there was a double bed situated right beside a window.  At night Grandma would take one of the box fans from the living room and place it in the window beside the bed.  The window sills were wide enough to hold a box fan and the windows themselves were the old crank-out variety.  There were feather pillows on that bed and I always had a devil of a time getting them to fluff up enough.  Occasionally the sharp end of a feather would poke through the pillow casing and I'd pull it out.  I thought that was pretty neat.  We didn't have feather pillows at our house.  That same bedroom had an old picture of Canadian Geese flying low over a marsh on a bright blue day.  It was hung on one wall of that room and I would spend hours gazing at it.  I loved the large fluffy clouds in that picture and I can still remember in my minds eye how it looks to this day. 

On Sundays we sometimes got to visit with our cousins at our Grandparent's house.  We would play hide and seek or tag.  We'd have secret meetings on the steps that led to the basement or we'd get permission to play ball on the basketball court or the tennis court.  We also went to the park just across the way that was in walking distance.  Hours spent on monkey bars or the merry-go-round would wear us out and we'd come home exhausted.

Their home was on Spruce Street.  It was situated just up from a creek that ran through town.  When a sudden summer storm would hit, the creek just below the house would rise quickly and sometimes spill over it's banks.  Heck, it would even cover the road.  After the storm passed Grandma would lead us down to the creek through the rising steam on the street and let us witness how high the water had risen.  She was always cautious...I don't recall there being a time when she didn't warn us all of the dangers of storm runoff.  She would latch on to our hands like vice grips and threaten us if we stepped too close to the rushing water of the creek.  There were times when we all felt like her worry over us was a bit extreme-making us get home by dark and be in bed shortly thereafter when there were still plenty of other neighborhood kids out playing.  Or pulling us into the house when strange cars passed by a little too slowly.  But now I think I understand some of her worry.  It's difficult enough to raise your own children and not over protect them but to have someone else's children in your care makes it even more precarious.  I'm glad she was the way she was.  I'm glad they gave us what freedom they could.   I'm glad for every memory I have of their home and I could probably write many pages still.  But what I've written were some of the highlights from a childhood and grandparents that made a lasting impression.  I miss you guys!

~Love, Gail

To All the Guys...Remember Me?

Do you remember the first time you saw me?  Probably not.  I was just an awkward looking, freckle-faced girl that sat and giggled nervously as your gaze stopped only briefly on me.  That might have been the first time you saw me-but I'd seen you at least a hundred times before.  Well, that's if you count the actual times I watched you from a distance and the other times when I dreamt of you.  I spent hours watching you play ball, riding a bike, a motorcycle, a skateboard, and even when you went swimming or fishing.  There were so many times that I sat and waited anxiously...hoping and praying that you'd just come by-that you would see me...that you'd speak to me.  

You were perfect-at least in my eyes.  I'd hazard to say you were amazing.  In my daydreams you were always the hero and I fantasized about you finding some clever way to catch me.  In my dreams it was you chasing me.  I'll bet you don't realize that you were the first boy I kissed.  Yep-in my dreams you did.  And it was everything I'd hoped for.  In my dreams you noticed me-the real me and you were just as crazy in love with me as I was with you.  It was like that for years.

For years (I know, that sounds crazy-huh?), I watched you from a distance and daydreamed.  Always wishing that I was someone you'd be interested in.  I reached a point where I was actually brave enough to speak to you and after stumbling over my own words a few times I was actually able to form a coherent sentence.  Eventually I even started hanging around you and your friends.  I tried to do things to get your attention-like climbing higher in the tree than anyone else just to impress you.  I also tried to be just as tough as you...just as cool.  I never cried when I got hurt-I was tougher than that.  I never considered myself a sissy girl.  But you never seemed to notice.  You never saw the girl that was silently screaming "Hello-I'm totally in love with you!"   Nope-you just saw me as another friend-just another friend who also happened to be a girl. 

More years went by and I slowly matured.  But to you I was still just an old friend with a smattering of freckles on my face and skinned-up knees to prove I could do anything that you or any of your guy friends could do. I did everything I could to keep up with you. But it was only because I wanted to be near you.

I gotta tell you that I hated your first girlfriend...(come to think of it I hated all of them). She was so wrong for you. I tried to warn you but you wouldn't listen.  I was mad when you chose her and later I was happy when you broke up. I know that's probably a mean thing to think but I won't lie. I wanted to rip her hair out, I wanted to punch her in the face, and for a time, well, ...I wanted to be her-but only because I wanted you to want me. When you broke up with her I thought for the briefest moment you'd noticed me-but it turns out there was someone else you'd noticed. Someone more popular, someone more high maintenance. I have to admit that for a while I was envious of the cheerleaders and the preppy crowd. They seemed to possess something I didn't.

Time has a way of making each of us bloom in one way or another.  It's taken me years to figure out that all those other girls don't possess what I have.  True, they were pretty and popular and they had their own kind of beauty-but I'm different.  I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty or my hair wet.  There are times when I love to dress up and get all girly but it also doesn't bother me to go without make-up.  I'm not afraid to throw on the first clean clothes I can find so I can run to the store.  I'm not overly glitzy and I don't pretend to be someone I'm not.  I like to have fun but not at the expense of everyone around me.  I laugh at funny things...and I'm gonna laugh so long as no one gets hurt.  I delight in things with substance.  I see beyond the airs people put on-I always have.  My inner beauty is something that shines brightly-but that shine is for a select few...I don't allow everyone to see it.  There is so much more to me than you could imagine.  So much more everything.  I tried desperately all that time to show you.  I wonder, did you ever really see me? 

Sincerely,

The Girl Next Door

A Good Book

Okay, for those of us that read frequently, some even CONSTANTLY, we know when we've read a good book.  A well-laid plot, good character development, vivid descriptions, unexpected but believable twists and turns.  Insight into other worlds.  Those are the mechanics as I see them.  But how do you measure a book in terms of it's "goodness"?  Well, here's what I think:

Regardless of the reader's genre preference a good book will draw the reader in, transport them to the time and place of the character(s) and will submerge them in the emotions that are experienced.  The reader will empathize with one or more characters and will subconsciously find a place among the cast.  Although it might seem cruel to some I've always thought that if a book can make you cry-either tears of sadness, rage or joy-then most likely it's a good book.  Not because I believe in making folks feel bad-but I believe in making folks FEEL.

A Day with Dementors

Anyone who has read J.K. Rowlings Harry Potter series knows about Dementors.  Those dark faceless creatures shrouded in torn black cloth that silently attack the unknowing and suck the soul from their victims.  The Dementors are described as leaving the person feeling cold, as if all the happiness has gone from the world.  It's a frightening idea if you really consider it.  Humans thrive on happiness.  It's what we seek.  Happiness is something different for everyone.  Some folks are happy because of happy things-fuzzy puppies, ice cream cones, etc.  Other folks get their jollies by dark things.  Either way, we all seek personal happiness and gratification in one form or another.

The title of this blog is A Day with Dementors.  To me it is the perfect description of what it is like to be depressed.  I want to describe to my audience (all three of you-lol) what it feels like to go through a day with depression.  It's not gory-but it isn't pretty either.

The alarm goes off...I force myself from the bed and begin my day because other people are counting on me.  I don't really care about getting out of bed.  I like sleeping-in the world of sleep I feel.  My dreams are a reminder that there is a part of me that still feels and I cling to sleep like a life raft.  Sleep is pain free-mostly.  Sleep, while refreshing to some, doesn't make me feel all that better when I'm awake.  I don't wake up ready to take on the world.  My body and energy haven't been renewed.  I wake up feeling blank.

Blank.  Yes.  That pretty much sums up what I'm feeling.  Either blank or profound sadness brought on by being blank.  Fear that my life will continue to go this way.  Will I ever feel again?  Will I ever take pleasure in simple things?  Will I ever laugh again?  I've almost forgotten how to laugh.  Sometimes I force myself to laugh so that others won't think something is wrong...so they won't suspect how I'm really feeling.  But it's not real laughter.  I don't feel it.  And I'm not really fooling anyone.  They can see it from the dull look of my eyes and my avoidance of things most people enjoy.  My voice when I do speak is automatic, almost as if I'm working from some pre-rehearsed script.  I force myself from bed.

Time for breakfast.  That should make me feel better.  Didn't eating bring me pleasure at some point in my life?  I'll eat something really tasty and totally bad for me.  That'll make me feel better.  I find something lacking in nutritional value and scarf it down.  I enjoy the flavor as I eat so I prolong the experience by eating slower...or if I'm really bad I'll eat twice as much.  Afterwards I do feel-but only guilt.  I shouldn't have eaten that-it was bad for me.  I'm smarter than that.  Oh well...keep moving forward.  Prepare breakfast for the others.  Suggest something nutritional-at least someone will benefit from that wisdom.  I see the family off to work and school and feel as if I've jumped one of the hurdles in my day.  Afterwards I'm hit by sadness at seeing the work set before me.  I look at it and wait for some revelation to hit me as to how I can get through it but nothing occurs to me.  Once again-I'm blank.  My life is a palette of black, white and all manner of grays.  Bleak at best.

Suddenly I feel tired.  I'll lay down and just take a short nap.  Maybe that will help me power back up.  Two or three hours later I'm woken by the telephone ringing.  I'm miffed-why can't they leave me alone?  All I want is to sleep.  I'm so tired.  Duty calls.  I force myself from my nap and try to find something to eat that will jolt my system awake.  Maybe if I can get going again I can get a few things done but as I look around I'm totally overwhelmed by everything I have to do.  I leave.  I'm sure there are a few things we need from the store.

At the store I fill the buggy with all manner of things.  Things to make my job easier.  Things to clean with, things to organize with, things to decorate our home.  My mood is elevated slightly.  I'm experiencing a shoppers high.  At least I can feel something.  I load my purchases in the car but by the time I reach home I am overwhelmed with guilt and then once again, I'm blank.  The feelings I had were short-lived.  I hate this "non-feeling".  I avoid friends.  I cut myself off from the world.  Television?  It doesn't matter.  My scope has been narrowed to such a small point that I can only see just in front of me.  The rest of the world is not my responsibility.

My family returns and I make an effort to smile.  To laugh.  To interact-but I really just want to be left alone.  They love me.  I know they do.  I should try harder.  But love won't make the Dementors leave.  They are there-hovering-shifting silently and invisibly around me.  Sucking out my soul, slowly absorbing my life force and pulling me away from the world.  I need to find some way to hang on.  Some way to shield myself from the depression they wield.  I'm not a wizard and I don't possess magic, but I do know there is help.  I've been told I don't have to live like this.  I decide to try and fight off the Dementors but I know I can't do it alone.  Thank God I live in a day and age when something can be done to fight back.  I start visiting a therapist.  A diagnosis is made-medicine is prescribed and slowly the dullness fades.  The blankness is slowly being replaced by moments that are...what?  I've not felt this way in so long that I'd forgotten.  Is this what it feels like to be normal?  To feel?  I find myself laughing at things, I find myself wanting to be with people and wanting to help others.  I see that the answer to fighting the Dementors isn't easy...it's a battle-daily, sometimes hourly-but I keep fighting.  I enjoy the victory.  I see those around me happier.  I want to do things now.  It's almost as if I can see the full spectrum of color in life.

I hope I always feel this way.  To feel-sometimes an impossible thing for someone with depression.  To be filled-to be filled with emotions and to revel in pursuing happiness. 

I hope Rowling doesn't have a fit that I'm using one of her creations to demonstrate a point but that's what it feels like to be depressed.  It's a daily battle-one that many people don't understand.  But I guess I've been one of those people that the Dementors see as an easy target.  Or maybe I just have such a remarkable life force that they want me specifically?  I'll try thinking of it that way...I'm not marred by depression.  I merely possess something they want.  They'll continue to follow me-but I'll continue to fight.