I have been working on writing an autobiography. At first, the words just seemed to flow. However, it has recently gotten harder for me to add words and know what to say. Sometimes I wonder why am I writing out this book that complains about my teen years and tells of the life of someone who has not lived an exceptionally unusual life.

However, as I read a post on Facebook about someone going into treatment for depression, my desire to encourage and the momentary memory of how painful my most recent episode of depression was not only compelling me to comment but also reminded me of why I am writing my book.

I have learned firsthand and secondhand that it is possible for depression to lift. It is possible to go from wanting to be dead, wanting an inexplicable emotional pain to end to having hope again and feeling…

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