Writing used to help lighten the impact of life. The words would come out of my heart, off of my chest and unburden me. Sometimes more than that. because when I read them back, they would somehow explain me to myself.
Nowadays, the weighted words stay heavy. Its a struggle to get myself to write at all, and I only do it to save hope in the magic that once was. I feel that continuity will do some justice for the concept.
I read a woman's story of her fight with ovarian cancer- first thing I came across on a search I was performing to get a little more raw, and find out what's really gonna happen. It gave me so much hope. Her original case was similar to my mom's I think, She had 2 recurrences, and her 3rd remission has been 7 years and counting. That is so wonderful.
Now why isn't my depression melting away? Why is smiling still impossible, and I cry over ridiculous things, and am always irritable. I had such a hopeful discovery and I want a break from the sludge