@Glisten i know, but it has far from always been that way. My faith in truthful love and the love of my wife, and when my children were still home, their love as well, and the grand kids of course. They sure been the light of my life. Love make such a difference. And i have been blessed with lots of that, although at the moment i have lost most of that if not all and not really sure how come and why but i do believe that love is strongest friend any one can have.
@Meowmy @ENKELI @GezzaP @heartathome
Once i began to hug myself true love instead of scold myself only ever condemnation did things begin change. The cruel reality all people with a depressive illness face i had become out of touch with my self and the love i most needed was no longer there but been replaced by depressive thoughts and feelings. It sure has been for me.
So i began, what i termed to myself, cultivate good life. This is about 21 years ago i started. i was suicidally depressed and had decided that my wife and kids were not going to stop me any longer from ending it. This is when i was shown that true love can beat anything if only i believed love could grow. And i saw how even tho depressive spells had started when still young i also had lots of good times not present any more. The good that was then had gone and be replaced by the bad life pounding me my depression. This is when i understood that because depression made me feel i had no good i had began to believe it and therefore it had grown in the place were good would have been when not depressed and tht is why i was now always depressed.
Once that realisation struck i know i had to grow good life were now despair, hopelessness, guilt, shame, regret, anger, confusion, social anxiety, etc. And that is what i began to do. Not believing the bad but grow good back and once i had time in a good time then i would try and go back there and look after myself in such self. Care for my self where faith, love and hope would come back even for a few seconds if i saw it i would hang to self like that when depressive thoughts would come next trying to steal it away again.
This is how so i fought myself out of my pit. It took me about seven, may be a bit more, years to become strong enough to cope with my worst depressive moods not letting go of the good i had when not depressed and wait for the depressive spell to pass. Sometimes weeks or longer. Were very hard lessons learned. But have proven to be so very worth it. For it give a sense of control, instead of loss of control when down deep.
Been a long road in other words.
Forsaking the Pit
As I climb over the rim, I clearly see;
a trembling passes through what once was me:
below, without bottom, the pit still lies —
an open wound beneath familiar skies.
A depth that calls without a sound,
a pull that circles, drawing down;
not distant, not elsewhere to flee —
but something once alive in me.
Voices rise — not one, but many —
threaded tight, accusing, heavy;
guilt and shame in woven breath,
whispering doubt, foretelling death.
Pressing, pressing, ever near,
feeding on remembered fear;
not from outside do they creep —
but from the places buried deep.
And still they reach — they cling, they claim —
through heat, through spark, through searing flame;
my footing falters, stones give way,
old fires licking at my clay.
Why did I carry what burns so long?
Why did I call that darkness strong?
A weight once worn as part of me,
now seen for what it came to be.
Above — not distant, yet not near —
a Light that neither shouts nor fears;
no force, no push, no binding claim,
yet steady still, and still the same.
Not grasped, not owned, not held in hand —
yet known in ways I understand;
a quiet knowing, clear and bright,
that draws me upward into light.
Stone against skin, and skin against stone,
the climb is mine — yet not alone;
for every place that would not yield
now slowly breaks, is gently healed.
What once was fixed begins to bend,
what once held tight now finds an end;
those hardened places, sharp and cold,
no longer have the grip they hold.
Upward still — through ache, through strain,
through loss of what I thought was gain;
for what falls off was never true,
and what remains is carried through.
Not by force, nor by my might —
but by a steady, living light;
a truth that does not rise and fall,
but waits, and holds, and gathers all.
And so I climb — not to escape,
but to leave behind a former shape;
for what once seemed the only way
now fades as I move into day.
The pit remains — but not for me;
its voice has lost authority.
What fed on fear can no longer stay
where truth and life now find their way.
And in that turning, slow yet sure,
what once was fractured stands more pure;
not made anew by will or plan —
but by becoming what I am.
