Childhood is teeming with dreams. I’ll be a fireman, or I’ll marry Prince Charming. All to quickly, the reality of life empties our dreams and refills us with Reality.
I wanted so much more for my life. I suppose I am the age that many women (or people for that matter) come to that realization. I had disillusions of a successful life. A more significant life. I wanted Happily-ever-after and independence and beauty.
I have writhed with this conflict for nearly three years now. The regrets become self-destructive laziness which ferments into feelings of anxiety which in turn transforms into depression.
Church folk don’t care for that word: Depression. It has been Hollywood-ized and turned into some demonic thing. I do not have the professional accolades to say that Depression cannot be somewhat contributed to sin. I can only speak for myself: My depression is real. As real as my faith in Jesus Christ is.
So what is a middle-aged Appalachian-American Woman to do? Rut around forever in these dark, gloppy feelings of worthlessness? No. There is no gain in such behavior. I can choose to grow where I am planted.
Which.. is not as easy as it sounds.