The Julies of the world.

It’s a nice day. But my friend Julie probably doesn’t know it.  Because she’s in depression. Has been. For a long, long time. Oh, she occasionally has good days. Because she’s a manic-depressive. She has brief extraordinary highs. That make her long-term lows seem even lower.  Doesn’t help that she drinks too much. Julie used to be a happy, functional human being. Now she doesn’t even know enough to get help. To obtain readily available treatment for her depression. And for alcoholism. Julie’s husband tries to encourage Julie to go into psychotherapy. And to seek rehab. But she steadfastly refuses. He thinks the decision must be left to Julie. Or the cure won’t stick. Of course, I’d force Julie into treatment. But I don’t have the authority. So I sit on the sidelines. And try to use the power of persuasion. But it’s not working. I once knew the Julie of another, much better time. But it all changed. When Julie became a care-giver. Bringing both of her Alzheimer-riddled parents into her own home. For six years. Indeed, a gallant and unselfish endeavor.

Unfortunately, Julie forgot to take care of herself. First and foremost.  She became exhausted. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Julie dropped into the abyss. And she hasn’t been able to climb out. So I watch. And tell Julie. Climb. Climb. Climb. I wish there was a way. To give Julie a ladder.  A way out. So that she didn’t have to do it all on her own. Anyway. To keep my sanity. I try to stay in love. With life. Despite seeing the languishing  misery of the Julies of the world. --Jim Broede