The funny thing about depression is that you know you’re going to be okay when you start worrying about other people.  So that’s why three nights ago I sat down and wrote a three page letter to Jared Padalecki, a depression survivor; complete with heart, soul, and post-script with plot ideas, it was an hour before I realized I had no idea where to send the darn thing.  I sat on my bed with that bulging, sealed envelope, wondering what I was I was doing.  Even if I did know the address, would I send it?  It was an utterly embarrassing collection of self- revelations, replete with deep depressions, failed attempts at cutting, the racking physical symptoms of out-of-control anxiety, and my own weakness.  All the chinks in my armor were illustrated in painful detail.  But I knew I would have sent it.  My hands would have shaken while I was putting it in the box, but I would done it.  Which is good.  That means I’m stronger than my fear now.  I’ve been going toe to toe with that son of a b**** for years, and now it wants to talk detente?  That means I’ve got it on the ropes, and I’m not going to stop now. 

It took me forever to figure out why I had such a hard time picking a favorite Winchester.  On one hand, Dean is wonderful.  On the other, I always had a strong connection to Sam.  I finally figured out that he reminded me of me.  Sweetly caring in our finest moments, angst- ridden and unconsciously cruel to loved ones in our worst.  We fight with and agonize over friends and family, but never, ever, ever stop loving them, not for a moment.  So, I guess I was really writing to Sam Winchester.  I can just see us sitting on a couch, wrapped in an old afghan, him drinking decaffeinated green tea, me holding a warm Darjeeling.  Me snapping at him, him making b**** faces at me...we’d be quite the pair.  Not to mention having Dean as a brother-in- law. 

Which leads me to another thing.  A year before I was born, my mother had a miscarriage.  A boy.  I can’t be sure of this, but somehow I just know.  I never thought about it before now, but it makes me almost desperately sad.  I was walking in the Columbia Gardens Cemetery when I saw a little stone marker in the ground, a little stone rectangle sunk into the grass like one of those plastic covers over pipes on the Capitol lawn.  There were no names on the marker, just this inscription.

Three Lacey Children

That was what did it for me.  I was suddenly desperately sad.  Those babies, lovingly buried before they ever had names, made me think of my big brother.  He wasn’t buried.  He was soaked up in tampons and flushed down the toilet.  I’m not writing this to offer answers.  I don’t have any.  This is just something that happened.  

3x

I love my brother, who died before he ever got a chance to live.  If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be crying this hard.  I have to stop now.  I can barely see the keys.