Muses, by Abigail Mandlin

When one is in the midst of a depressive episode, it’s a whirlwind. It’s a ceaseless stream of doctor’s appointments, psychiatric visits, therapy sessions, trips to the pharmacy, frantic late-night internet searches, well-meaning friends and family giving you unsolicited advice, and so on and so forth. While it may not feel like it at the time—as the fog is heavy, prominent, inescapable—the help is there, an ever-present weight against the back.

But what of when it’s all over?

When the dust settles, and the cloud lifts, who or what is there to assist in picking up the pieces, in sorting through the rubble? The medication is eased, and the therapy is lessened. But what is one to do with this life in tatters, this new and foreign existence no longer encumbered? Depression is a curse, indeed, but if it’s around long enough, it’s easy to view it as a comfort, a constant, a familiar face in the crowd.

So when it is gone, what is one to do with the void left behind?

In Muses, by Abigail Mandlin, one writer strives to find out.