Not quite what I meant

I've been thinking some about my last post. I didn't mean to imply that my friends -- who are wonderful and understanding -- didn't understand, deal with, face depression also. Many of them do; many of them fight much harder than do I. And they forgive me for my absences, they understand and worry without pushing, and they provide strength that I could not do without. Depression is a funny thing, and it has a suprisingly high cost, both for the sufferer and for their family and friends. The people who understand -- either because they face it, or because they are sensitive to it -- and who stay anyway are valuable beyond price. For some of them, it will be my turn tomorrow, or was yesterday, for others perhaps not, but we all make each other stronger. To have people to that I know I can call and who will welcome me when I say "I can't be alone" is an amazing gift.

My cousin knows first-hand how dark the world can get, and what it takes to fight back from an overwhelming disease, and how that changes a person. It's not the same disease that I fight, but his knowledge means that I never need to feel ashamed about what I'm fighting and how I'm fighting it. I might piss him off (I often do, I'm sure), but he knows where it comes from. He and his wife and family have provided shelter from a storm when I couldn't get to anything else, and they have done it with love and kindness. I am luckier than words can ever express.