I found a poem in your writing and thought you might like to see it. It is yours after all.

Holding On

Treatment is a euphemism, it seems,
for partial destruction of a self.
And not just the physical self.
I have struggled with my identity.

I look in the mirror
and don’t recognize the person there
–she’s scarred, noticeably older
and gray.

I’ve had my hair colored twice and still,
I don’t know who that person is.
She looks kind of butch,
like a housewife who has let herself go.

It’s hard to swallow.

Then yesterday, my first grader’s teacher
was shocked to hear that I’ve been in treatment
because I always seem so happy and fresh.
I appear that way because I am happy.

I’m happy to be alive,
to breathe this beautiful autumn air,
to have an active role in my children’s lives,
no longer bogged down in a nasty fog of depression.

Things are never really what they seem.
Though I look at myself
and see a worn out old hag,
someone else sees a healthy, happy spirit.

I’m going to hold on to that for now.