Personal Reflection
Depression rarely looks like the grand collapse we see in films—it’s slower, quieter, a kind of suffocating monotony. Yet, it is very real. It’s not the dramatic breakdown in a rain-soaked street; it’s the heavy silence that lingers in the kitchen at 2 a.m. It’s the untouched dishes, the stalled conversation, the way light feels thinner when it slips through the blinds. It’s the boredom that corrodes everything, the dull ache of simply existing.
Anne Sexton strips the monster of its glamour. She reminds us that depression isn’t always a tragedy to be performed; sometimes it’s just…boring. And maybe that’s its cruelest trick—it convinces us that even our suffering has become ordinary. Sexton’s defiance is in the small things: soup, light, fire in the cave. Not grand gestures, not a cure, but a refusal to let the dark have all the power.
It’s not about pretending the cave isn’t real—it’s about refusing to let it stay pitch-black. Small rituals—heat, nourishment, a flicker of flame—don’t erase the cave, but they carve out enough space to breathe inside it. Sometimes survival isn’t about escape—it’s about claiming one corner of the darkness and saying, this part is mine, and I will not let it go out.
Reflective Prompt for Readers
When the cave closes in, what’s the one small act that keeps you from going under completely?
Not the big, polished answers—the raw, ordinary thing. The soup. The match. The flicker that proves you’re still here.
What is it for you, and when was the last time you reached for it?
Memoirs of Madness 
Very well expressed. “Not grand gestures, not a cure, but a refusal to let the dark have all the power.” Like a low-grade fever, low-grade depression can linger. What you say here about refusal is key.
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Exactly, thanks Lisa
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You are welcome.
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Music or the dog. I hate feeling backed into a corner and will come out fighting. I gave in once. Never again.
Maya is a lifeline for both of us. She drives us nuts sometimes, but when we have days like today where EVERYONE we met wanted to come up and say hello, how good she was in the restaurant, shop and DIY store, my heart bubbles and overflows with joy and wonder that she’s ours.
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There’s a certain kind of rescue that doesn’t look dramatic. No flashing lights, no grand announcements. Sometimes it just shows up with muddy paws and a heartbeat that somehow steadies yours.
Maya may not understand trauma or systems or the language of nightmares, but she understands presence — and that’s often the one thing the world forgets to offer. She doesn’t ask you to explain or justify anything. She simply arrives, insists on being noticed, and in doing so, reminds you that you still exist. Guppy does the same for me.
And those moments — strangers stopping, smiling, praising her calm, her light — they’re not just about her. They’re proof that your life still has gateways for joy, even when you feel cornered. Proof that gentleness can still find you, even when you’ve had to fight too long and too hard.
Music keeps the soul company. A good dog keeps the heart from closing.
You didn’t give in. You found a way to stay. Thanks, Di
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Maya (and Maggie before her) picks up on our moods and is wonderful with Hubby on their walks. She knows when to wait, slow down or stop if he has to rest.
It hurts so much to lose a beloved pet, but when ready, the heart just expands to make room for the next one. Lovely reply Mangus. Thank you.
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