This is why I write. Yesterday, as soon as I had finished that post about being depressed, it was no longer quite as true. It was as if I had put it in front of me, looked it squarely in the eye, and now it had a life of its own--outside of me.
Before I got married, I made my husband promise he would never read my journals without being invited. The reason was that I only wrote in them when I was depressed, so they gave a desolate picture of my inner life that was only partly the truth, because the moment I wrote in them, what I felt was transformed into something more managable. Which meant my journal entries were a fleeting truth. I did not want to be judged by them. Writing has always been therapy for me, the thing that keeps me relatively sane, even as it aims for the heart of a moving target, my fleeting, everchanging truth.
I'm also happy cause my boy comes home today!