A little over a year ago, something happened.

I can rattle off a handful of disappointments that one might think contributed to that “something,” but I’ve done that. Many times. And not even the sum total of all the little setbacks can account for the magnitude of the deficit, glaring at me in red numbers at the end of my metaphorical balance sheet.

I’ve heard others describe depression, and while I’m familiar with feeling low, I’ve never quite identified with the symptoms described. Any time I’ve been so down that just getting out of bed seemed impossible, I could directly trace it to a breakup, a loss, or some major life event that – with the support of others and the passing of weeks or months – drew further from my view as the emotional pain lessened. The desperation never felt permanent.

But this long period of whatever-it-was was different. I didn’t cry everyday. My heart didn’t ache. There wasn’t an acute and identifiable discomfort. I was simply numb. I could go through the motions of getting through the day. I could spend time with friends. I could meet my responsibilities; at least, as well as I did during any given year – the only exceptions to be attributed to my inherent laziness.

What was missing was my sense of self. I was merely a passenger on someone else’s train, slumped on a milk crate in the back of a boxcar, with no interest in where I were headed or when I’d arrive. My purpose was a mystery I had no intent to solve. I had lost my connection to humor and pleasure, though I didn’t really see it.

What I did see is my complete inability to write. To put anything on paper felt disingenuous, like the entire act of communicating was for somebody else – not me. Even when I tried, the ruled lines of my journal became occupied with someone else’s uninspired words; a steaming pile of self-pity and sorrow just plopped onto a page.

And then I changed. Not changed in the sense that I emerged from a cocoon and transformed into a beautiful new being, improved and more enlightened. No – I changed back. I came home. I shuddered open and was suddenly able to feel again. To laugh. To care about others. To listen. To talk.

Desire – the virtuous sort that I was born with, not the self-seeking urges that controlled me in adulthood – regained its roots. And with good timing, watering and sunlight, it bloomed.

Only now that I can write again, I clearly see the miracle, and recognize the irony in having no words to describe it.