If I told you everything was normal, I’d be lying. If you’ve followed my blog, you know I crashed and burned recently. I like to blame my diagnosis of clinical depression on my type A- obsessive-compulsive-instant-gratification-people-pleaser-avoidance-of-conflict personality. I’m not ashamed of the diagnosis. Someday, my being so transparent with the public might come back to bite me in the ass. But for now, I’m okay with disclosure. Call it my therapy.

I didn’t write for over two months. The thought of writing exhausted me. I felt numb, blunted, unemotional, flat, living but not. My doctor said to give the medication two to three weeks. My therapist said to take a break from writing for a month and then set a day or two out of the week to write.

I decided on Wednesdays and Sundays. That first Wednesday I sat in front of the computer but didn’t write anything new. The Sunday, I wrote five pages, but was exhausted the next day. By mid-week, I called in sick to my day job and slept the majority of the day.

Six weeks after the medication, I feel better, but not quite normal. I write but I pace myself. I look at the reviews of my books and whether the rating is a one star or five, I don’t ride that roller coaster ride of highs and lows anymore. I’m very even keel and I like that. I don’t feel blunted, numb, flat or unemotional. I’m living, laughing, loving and enjoying my crazy life.

When I do write and I feel myself getting carried away, I remember what my husband had said to me after I was ready to give up writing. I’m an all or nothing kind of person I reminded him. He said, “You and I and the kids, we’re for eternity. Your writing is another piece in the bigger picture of your life.”

The hubby wasn’t minimalizing my writing. Rather he was telling me in his own romantic way that writing doesn’t have to be an all or nothing part of my life as long as I realize what will always be important—my marriage and my family.