Writing, writing

She told me to write.  She thinks I have a unique perspective.  She thinks it will help.  

Me.  

The label I've been given is Major Depressive Disorder.  And I'm stuck.  Pills, Talk Therapy, Group Therapy, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy; nothing seems to move the needle.

No, I don't know why, where, when.  Like the ghost of a familiar scent, there's something insidiously seductive about it; I've been here before & I'm happy(!?) to be back.  

I am being tricked, by my own brain, into feeling safe inside myself.

The Observer

There's someone I want you to meet - I call her my Observer. 

My Observer is alive inside me, distinct, real.  She's my narrator and historian, my faithful companion, my patient teacher.  She's a gift really because when I pay attention to her I am rewarded - I get to learn about myself, connect the dots in my life.  And there are a lot of dots.

So, this blog will be about my Observer because to know her is to understand me. And I want to be understood.