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Writing is one of my tools for getting over the rough spots. I used to trash the results. On the request of many friends, the following is not going into the waste bucket. It is an account of my own experience and is not ment to be a diagnosis or a fix all for others. I’ve been there once before. Behind the cold black door. The one I try to keep tightly locked and usually do a fair job of. But once before a change cames and I find myself on the other side of that door, uncertain how I got there. What’s it like, the narrow space behind that door? It’s death to stay there long. Death of laughter, hope, joy, and a lot of other things. I’m not alone behind that door. A lot of what ifs, could have beens, and I never had a chances live beyond that door. Pity lives there, and self hate. But I thing the worst being that lives there is despair. That awful ice cold empty feeling that whispers things like can’t, never, unable, incomplete, hopeless. Ugly little worms that eat away at my soul. I can’t say I saw it coming, though I should have. I’ve always seem to have had more than the usual ups and downs. Spring and early summer are the worst. That’s when the bicycles come out. Then I start thinking about what I couldn’t do as a child. Tricycles and skate boards were beyond my strength. But bicycles. With three wheels I could pretend I was zooming along. But bicycles were just a wish that could never come true. Then I start thinking about what I can’t do now. That’s where I flip the lock and open that door to depression. None of this triggered it this year. I’m not sure what did. One minute I was talking calmly to my boss on the phone and the next I was filled with the absolute knowledge that a 46 year old cripple in a wheelchair was incapable of dealing with a sometimes forgetful wife, having to move to a new apartment, a job, and Parkinsons. I knew beyond a doubt that PD was going to eat by mind away in the next few seconds and I was going to go sailing away into the void. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t seem to breath. I don’t know how long I was there. I heard some talking, but I didn’t want to understand the words. Then I heard some I did understand. "What am I going to do?" My wife was repeating the words over and over. That door opened a bit and I got shoved through it. I was needed! For the first time in my life I really felt needed. I know in some cases I’m handy to have around, but this person needs me for something that’s unique to me. It is true that without Kristen I would have to live in a rest home or hire someone to help me. But Kristen needs me for what I can do. She has never cared about what I can’t do. I won’t say I’m not depressed. Experience has taught me that it may take as little as a few days, or as long as three weeks. I’m recovering. I’ve been told that depression is a symptom of Parkinsons. Fine. I’ve been winning small battles with it most of my life and I intend to keep on winning.