There is always that first good day, after a couple weeks in the darkest of places when the mental clouds lift just enough for me to see how wonderful my life is. My lovely little life. And I cry because I don’t cry in the dark, it’s too alone and unsafe. I cry for the first time in the light of depression lifted. Although today it’s a little ironic because it’s cloudy and wet.

The depression and triggers and memories have a terrible strength. A horrible strength much stronger than my own. So i spend a lot of my dark days, back bent trying to put one foot in front of the other, food in my and Augustine’s bellies, a smile on Ted’s face and my hope in Jesus seeing me through. Because the days pass and the present slowly shovels me out. And eventually I grin at the little moments in gratitude that my life has been here all along. My lovely little life of toddler tantrums and kisses, wine at dinner and candles on my walls, friends downstairs and up and around all the corners of our block. And the lovely little life I have  trickles down my face. 

I’ll have to save this piece, written behind a stroller laden with groceries and my toddler love, to reread so I can remember that the dark days do pass. Eventually.