If I know that I can do something that makes me happy, why do I allow myself to get so depressed?

I'm attracted to difficulty, I think. I'm attracted to guys who have truckloads of baggage. With them, it will never, ever be simple. And then they do or say one little magical thing and they own me.

Nobody ever asks for permission to ask you a question you want to hear. Nobody ever says, Can I ask you a question? Would you mind if I gave you a massage and warm brownies every day for a month?

In a flash, I remember why I don't care for therapists and why I didn't want to do this in the first place. They judge. Even if they don't mean to, they do. They think they know best and, sorse yet, they can convince you it's true.

I have a mind like a sieve,
where sadness sits
and happiness slips

The post-natal depression story also highlights the difficulties families face.