Glimmer of Hope

I'd heard about Winston Churchill's "Black Dog" of depression that hounded him (sorry) most of his life. But as one essayist described, Churchill's mental illness may have given him an edge on reality that led him his country into war and banishing those who schemed to appease Germany. This opinion of Churchill's mental state is shared by many biographers of the prime minister. The simplest description of the man's troubles are described at www.nami.com.

It was the glimmer of hope in the face of insurmountable challenges that propelled WC to lead a successful campaign, write several dozen books, and present memorable speeches. As long as he kept writing, moving, and pushed his political agenda that "black dog" was pushed away.

I need to find that glimmer of hope if I'm to live much more than another 10 years. Bear with me, dear reader, as I try to lose myself in the one thing that drowns out so many voices: writing. Although my best written work has been with newspapers (bless that deadline) I am hoping I can find something more to enliven me, possibly found on a keyboard?

Futility has hampered me for many years. Why should I write when there are no readers? Friends have said I can write for myself, which isn't a consolation, given I don't plan on going back and reading over my musings. We all struggle with "how will I be remembered," and writing a book is one answer. At least it will be for part of one generation.

Perhaps I could write a collection of fairy tales for my granddaughter Alice, something that would hopefully be passed down to her children, etc. I would need an artist to enhance any text-laden pages. I could publish a book of my poetry. Or write an autobiography of my experiences. My favorite time growing up was in Hawaii before statehood. Mom and Ed had recently married so he was unaware of things that haunted his wife, until much later. Phoebe was born while we were in Waikele, the navy base where Ed was stationed, so it was a happy time for my parents.

But I had a way of getting in trouble, which led Edward to use a belt on my five-year-old bum, at which point I would lose control of my bladder. His clenched teeth and unbuckling his belt was enough to start peeing my pants. This happened so often that he started putting me over the toilet for my punishment, with my willie facing into the water. By that time I was already drenched, exacerbating his anger.