Writers Writing, and Being Alive

I went to a LDS Storymakers Conference in Provo, UT  a couple of weeks ago.

Here is the thing about Provo. I went to BYU, and LOVED it. I love being a student. Nothing gets me more excited then a syllabus and a classroom. This time of life was two things. It was the time of possibility and innocence. I was learning about the world through traveling on study abroad and reading. I was discovering me as an adult and planning for my future. It was also the beginning of my struggle with depression, but I didn't it at the time. I never would have predicted that my fun-loving, highly ambitious, insanely social self would struggle with the darkness, loneliness, and self-doubt that accompanies my mental illness.

The first night in Provo I went to Cafe Rio. It is my favorite. Sweet pork on fresh tortillas. Yum. I was standing in line by myself, having just recently come out of the darkest depressive episode I've experienced yet. I am still a little vulnerable. There was a young family standing in the line behind me.  They had a  a toddler at their feet, and a baby in the wife's belly. The husband and wife were talking about their day.

I remember thinking about when I was in college, and dreaming of the time I would be a mother. Just like this little family. I dreamt about how lovely life would be, and how much I would be in love, and what  a fun mom I would be. I couldn't wait. I just knew life was going to be so great, and I would be living the dream.

Looking at that mother, young child, and pregnant made me realize what my reality was. As much as I love my children, being a mother is hard. My pregnancies made me very ill, where I was incapable of doing anything the first trimester, and I suffered postpartum depression once my babies were born. The reality of that dream of motherhood was nothing I thought it would be.

I looked at that family and realized my life was real, and the dreams I had as a young college girl when I was so sure of who I was and what I was going to be, were shattered. I had been so sure of life at 20. Coming back to visit a place where I was a different person 12 years ago, made me realize the difference in myself, the innocence was gone.

But, here I was with writers. Writers! I met Kaylee in person. I met Spanky Ward, and was hanging out with Shallee McArthur, and Krista Jensen. I keep going to visit Robison Wells at the check in table and petting Annie as my safe place.

Robison E.Wells, being a BYU and Dr. Who supporter. 

My buddy Annie, looking snazzy.

Nancy Campbell and Jennifer Moore were here smiling at me and introducing me to their friends. Marion Jensen, Margot Hovley ate pho with me. These are people who understood me, and motivated me, and loved me. I didn't have to have conversations about dry shampoo versus cleansing conditioners, or what my kids ate for breakfast, or talk about my husband's job. I could talk about writing. The thing I think about all day. The craft that burns in me. My outlet, and my passion. I was alive to experience it.

I am alive.

The very same Saturday that I was in classes at the Storymakers, learning about description techniques by allowing characters to show emotion about their surrounding, getting an introduction to screen writing, and learning about productivity in writing, my husband was at a funeral. His co-worker's daughter had died that week.

She was 19. Beautiful. Talented. And, she had taken her life while she was alone at home. We had been struggling with depression at the same time. We were in the same place. I survived. She didn't. It is heartbreaking, and it could have been me.

My people. My writers.
Nancy, Josi, Marion, Corey, Margot, Jenni, Krista, Evelyn, and Chris

I am so grateful I made it through. Grateful that I can eat Cafe Rio, and ponder on how my life is different. I am grateful I can write, and get better at it. I am grateful that I can make new friends, and laugh with old ones. I can take photographs, and share them. I can attend galas and cheer on friends who have won beautiful awards for their books.  I can meet Margaret Blair Young in person and tell her how much I admire her. I can eat chocolate cheesecake until I am sick. I can sing, and run, and hug my children. I can kiss my husband, and cry at the hard times we faced together. I can get a speeding ticket driving home. Hallelujah!

I am alive.