“Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.” — Dauphin*
Shakespeare was right.
I recently got into a bit of trouble with one of my more respected commenters for having a rather spicy say about a post that, for my reading dollar, was about as negative and depressing a piece of writing as I have even fallen into on Medium. I continue to be unapologetic about it for one simple reason: even after returning to that piece, I still couldn’t find anything positive about it.
She was wallowing in being SO OLD at 51. Look. Those of you who know my writing, know how I feel about such pap. And while my commenter interpreted something very different, I heard from others who, like me, felt dragged through depression sewage by the end of the story. That’s what I am addressing here. Not arguing someone’s right to deal with depression. But to point to getting old as the culprit.
I created a Medium tag for a category of my stories: Aging Vibrantly. That should speak for itself. While I am happy to entertain and learn from others’ POV, I have long learned to edit what comes into my brain for toxic Wordfood, a term I coined in a book I wrote back in 2010. That addresses the notion that the words we feed ourselves nourish various parts of us. Including our toxic need to be right about Ain’t It Awful.
