Growing Where I’m Planted, Part I

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.

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