An Email Response

I received an email from a friend this morning. She is depressed. I really don’t know how to help other than to send some encouraging words. I did that. Thinking about her prompted me to write a little scenario in an attempt to understand.

“When the sun goes down, are you happy?” Sam asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Not always?” he pressed. He was concerned, for he had noticed her seeking distance from him, her face drawn and forlorn. Julia had been a beauty when she was young with long, glossy, brown hair that fell in long curls to her waist and eyes so dark he remembered staring, longing to be lost there.

“No, not always,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I just didn’t expect to be here, now, living like this. I wanted more.”

Sam took her hand. It was not soft, but rather calloused, the years of work having taken their toll. Her face was sweet though – a bit rounder, more fleshy, but appealing, at least to him. He loved her.

“What is your life missing?” he tried again. He felt a sudden emptiness, as though his very heart had slipped out of place. Was he losing her?

“I’ve made mistakes,” she answered.

“Everyone makes mistakes. I’ve sure made my share,” Sam admitted with a crooked smirk. “Mistakes are in the past though.”

Sam’s words reflected his nature. He did not live in the past, or the future. He simply took each moment as it came, good or bad. It was what had drawn Julia to him.

“I wanted more, Sam,” Julia confessed. “My dreams are dead. I had to shove them onto a shelf, long before I knew you. Life took over. The years have sprinted by and here I am, we are, too young to stop now, too old to start over.”

“Of course, we're too young to stop living life,” Sam stated emphatically. “And we’re not too old to start something new. What do you want to do, Julia? Where do you want the rest of your life to take you?”

“I wanted to be an artist, a painter,” Julia whined, clearly wallowing in regret. “Instead, I had to find a career that would be certain to pay the bills. I had a kid. I had to be responsible.”

“Your dreams don’t have to stay on the shelf, Julia,” Sam told her. “You can still paint. Your kid’s an adult; he’s on his own. You did a good job. Now do what you want. Do what makes you happy.”

“I don’t know . . . “ she started.

“I know,” he gently interrupted. “Do what you love. Paint. It will make your heart sing.”

I don’t understand depression very much. I have moments of sadness but that’s different. Sadness is an emotion. Depression is a condition. I can only hope my friend finds a solution and as I told her in my response, “I’m here for you.”