things i thought
held me up
and help me up
i found out are shaky

i am thought odd one
guilty of excellence
called by the many
unreasonable girl

pieces are breaking
from the mosaic
but where they hung
there is nothing but grey

all around me the bricks
that I thought were solid
turn liquid and broken
and leave me hung, shattered

Stepping Into The Minefield (To Those Who Love A Depressed Person)

Totally great article about a hard thing.

Thank you to the one who loved me thru, and the new friends who are present for me to feed the new lil chick within.

john pavlovitz


Life with depression is precarious business.

It’s like living full-time in a minefield.

You never quite get comfortable with your surroundings, even when things seem quiet. You always move gingerly, knowing full well that any step could blow it all up and send you reeling again; a bit of bad news, a difficult moment, or worse seemingly nothing at all. And every single time something triggers the sadness and that inner detonation occurs, parts of you get ripped up and shredded—and losing a bit of yourself in this way never gets easier.

One of the things most people don’t understand is the way mental illness isolates you, how it forces you to the periphery of all of your relationships because you know how unstable the ground you walk on each day is and how quickly everything can get ugly. You desperately want to avoid the collateral damage to people you love, so you learn to keep them…

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A Thunderstorm in Town

I am reblogging this post by a friend of mine…

It’s a brilliant piece of writing in its simplicity and lack of pretension. I love when a really good writer just types her heart and doesn’t try to “write”…in my own writing I have found that some of my best poems are the ones that just scamper out while “I” am not looking.

Be sure to read the Thomas Hardy poem at the end.

It’s enough to make you cry for a year.

Michelle R. Terry

A thunderstorm passed through a few moments ago. My son fell asleep on the couch next to me, but not before he opened the window that sits level with my desk.  The study is filled with the lyrical sound of the last staccato raindrops pinging the gutters. Turns out that Dane loves thunderstorms, too and I treasure this commonality.

iPhone capture of the backside of the July 13, 2015 tornado

The storm is working her magic on me. Coupled with candles, Macy at my feet, and a diet cherry limeade, it’s all I need to get into the mood to write. Not that I have to be in any certain mood to write.

I know, it’s been like crickets in the halls of MamaMick. There are cobwebs in the corners, dust bunnies under the bed, and dried pizza crusts gathering ants in the discarded box. I’ve popped in long enough to say hello and then disappeared again–like Cheshire Cat.

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