Blogging is therapeutic. Email can be therapeutic as well – sometimes. Within reason. Occasionally. With very little editing, just enough to protect the innocent and not-so-much, here’s an example, courtesy of Chuck’s challenging day at work.
Me: Northern Wisconsin has 16 inches of snow. Madison and Milwaukee have sunshine.
Chuck: I’m being snowed under sorting out the incompetence from the non-functional.
Me: There must be a Dilbert-style quote or post in there somewhere.
Chuck: Department motto – Our perfection has to overcome their incompetence.
Me: I still like “Engineering: We put the fun in dysfunctional.”
Chuck: Now we’re applying soothing unction to the dysfunction.
Then we both got busy and went back to work.
On another topic: blogging has been therapeutic, too. A coworker asked how I keep up with everything. She was referring to the fact that I helped out in high school English for a few days, submitted a blog post and wrote a new profile for our national office’s PR department, while still somehow managing to do my own job and do it well, too. I stopped in my tracks. This is such a huge dramatic change. It’s a change back to normal, whatever that is.
One year ago, I was blogging my way through the worst depression of my life. This illness had me knocked out, incapable of working, and barely functioning. Thanks to many professionals and family and friends, I’m now back in the land of the working and the happy and the energetic. Wow, I thought, maybe this is what healthy feels like.
Then a dangerous thought crossed my mind. Would a collection of my posts be of interest to other people suffering the same way I did? Knowing I wasn’t alone was such a comforting feeling. Battling the depression demon was long and difficult, but possible. The long and winding road (uphill both ways, of course) can lead to health and success.
Well, readers, with a little revision to protect myself and others, could the Compostermom Chronicles become a journal of healing? Share your thoughts, readers, and I’ll start giving it some thought myself.