Writing for Recovery

Once again, slipping over the edge into a serious depression. Once again, I can't remember how to get myself out of it. Once again, wondering what's-the-use-anyway. That was several months ago. I've been clawing my way back ever since. Raging against apathy and increasing infirmity (both mine). Near paralyzed by lack of will (also mine). Discouraged (definite lack of courage).

My middle son is 47 -- in and out of a suicidal depression (bipolar heredity my side of the family). I tell him I understand. And, that for people like us who had spent so much of our lives struggling, we are hard-wired for an inability to give up completely.

I can't fix things for him. I finally remember that walking and writing were lifelines for me when I was his age. Can't do the first; haven't been doing the other. So, I drag myself to the swimming pool seven days a week, and I join a writer's group in search of a deadline. I'm finally writing again. Writing for recovery. Once again.