Because of the authority with which words like "clinical depression" or "bipolar" are used in modern conversation, they are given the impression that those words have a permanence and solidity they do not actually have.
This spring I had an epiphany about the mixed feelings I was having about where I live. I knew that deep down there were absolutely things I loved about where I lived, I just was in a funk and needed reminding. So I made a list.
What is home, anyhow? I was lonesome for Europe for 30 years after returning to the States. Finally I am back here. Sometimes it's hard, but sometimes it's glorious. What does it matter when or where we die?