I have spent the last four years writing a novel about my journey through depression. My mother had it. I had PPD 22 years ago, when my daughter was born. And yes, she suffers from it too. But I got REALLY lucky. I found a good therapist- not some lame brained, greedy jackass, but someone who wanted me to get better as fast as I could.Then I found a good spiritual teaching- not the tradtional fire and brimstone, but something that made me stop feeling like a piece of crap on the heel of God's shoe. And I wrote a novel to give people hope. If you have time and you want to try another way of thinking about life and yourself, check it out. If you don't have a Kindle, you can download it free to your pc here. www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd

Read the excerpt below.You can get the book, Manifesting Daddy, here:


If I help just one person by exposing my own inner journey, it will be worth it.


Funny that the most influential man in my life at that moment was one I barely knew. And he was making me bare my soul to him. For my second session, I had to bring a list of some of the unpleasant things I’d told myself in my internal dialogue that week.

“Alright,” Dr. Park said, unfolding the sheet of paper. “When you look in the mirror you see a worn out, middle aged woman with bad hair and huge teeth.” He was slouched in his chair, wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a Lil Wayne T-shirt.

“You betcha.”

He shook his head. “Alright, then. Let’s say you have an identical twin sister. You’re close. You love her, she loves you. But she goes missing. After a few days, you contact the police. Would you describe her the same way?”

I laughed. “I guess.”

“Bullshit.” He blushed. “I‘m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said. “I’m paying you to be straight with me. And if that means you have to use obscenities to get your point across, go for it. Hell, yeah.”

He laughed. “Very well. I’ll say it again. Bullshit. You would not describe your twin sister that way.”

I sighed. “You’re right.”

“What about your husband? Has he ever forgotten a birthday or an anniversary?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“Did you write him off as a piece of shit loser because of it?”

I giggled. “No.”

“But you’ll gladly label yourself that way when you make a mistake.”

I nodded.

“Before we can get you to treat yourself with the love and compassion you’d show a family member, you’ll have to stop thinking of yourself with the same adjectives you’d use in reference to some jerk who beat up his girlfriend, got drunk out of self pity, and drove into a van full of Sunday school kids.” He frowned at my laughter. “Seriously. You’ve said you think of yourself as a worthless loser. Aside from saying he was a mean asshole, isn’t that pretty much the way you’d describe the drunk?”

I shrugged.

“Melanie, yours is not a point of view worth preserving. No good will come it. Even if I haven’t yet convinced you that you’re not a worthless loser, you must at least agree that it does you no good to think you are. Can you give me one example of how those thoughts have helped you?”

How dare he try to put me on the spot? He was barely past the legal drinking age. There were too many kids in the medical profession. The last time I went to see my gynecologist, I had to describe my symptoms to a girl who seemed more suited for selling Girl Scout cookies outside the grocery store. I wanted to ask if her mother knew she spent her days discussing vaginal discharge. Damned know-it-all brat. “It keeps me on my toes,” I told him. “I don’t get complacent that way.”

“You’re your own drill sergeant, then?”


“And what’s your goal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Drill sergeants do all that screaming and name calling to raise adrenalin and help the soldiers get through basic training. What is it you’re trying to accomplish?”

I rolled my eyes. He had the nerve to look smug, like he’d tricked me. “Obviously I want a better life.”

“Great. So what steps are you taking to improve it?”

The son of a bitch. “Why do you think I’m here? If I knew what to do, I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

“And this internal drill sergeant of yours? Has it helped you in any way to have a better life?”

I sighed. “Obviously not.”

“Great. I’d say that’s reason enough to fire the drill sergeant. Or at least retrain him. When he decides to talk, think about things that make you happy. If you keep that up, eventually you’ll figure out exactly what you need in your life to make it better. As long as you focus on what’s wrong, you’re stuck there. All of your energy and imagination is wasted on exploring your misery. Are you with me?”

He made sense. Another know-it-all brat. “I’m with you.”


1 Comment
  1. ancientgeekcrone 11 years ago

    I love it.  What a great blog.  It is written in an interesting fashion too.  You may have the seeds of a writer within you.

    0 kudos

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