What I won't put in my diary...

I have always liked the idea of a diary. Some sort of journal, some way to document one's way through life. I have enjoyed reading others' life stories, and been grateful my own parents documented their struggles and successes. I like the idea of putting your raw emotions and feelings on paper as you work out your daily adversities. I envy a songwriter/artist/author's ability to find their voice and fearlessly share it with the world. I just can't seem to do it myself.

I sit on my bed, pen in hand and stare at the paper. I can't do it. My anguish is too real, too ugly, and the sight of it on paper is to be aware of possible betrayal of everything I have fought to hide on a daily basis. I cannot possibly reveal my inner battles, my complete belief that I have failed at everything I have hoped to be. I am not sure I want that to be my legacy, the thing that lives on after I am gone to be judged and criticized or pitied.

So instead I will put it here. Probably no one will ever read it. But I hope that possibly someone, somewhere might take some courage in knowing that there is someone out there WHO KNOWS HOW THEY FEEL. Who knows that DEPRESSION SUCKS and that there is someone who is determined to conquer it in the end. I, too, have had that Smug Person say to me that depression is a made-up-thing that lazy people use to get out of work. I have been told I need to just get over it, cheer up and stop feeling sorry for myself. So I learned the hard way, as so many have, to hide what I feel and be as careful as I can in choosing who I talk to about my feelings.

So who am I? Just an average mom, in my early thirties, married with two kids, trying to figure out if we should have more. You have probably walked past me before, stood in line behind me at Disney World, been stopped in the lane next to me at a red light. I am Nobody. But I am determined to find my voice, to find some way to express it.