Before the anti-depressants and over medication, I expressed my creative self through acting in high-school and college theatre productions–and through writing poetry.
I’ll never be another Yeats, but my poetry was from the heart. I wrote about love, loss, friendship, life, and death. My impressions were clear and my expression was true. Until I found myself under the care of a bad psychiatrist (and over medicated), I wrote consistently throughout college and well into the first (good) years of my marriage. The bad therapy all but killed any creative urges I had, but I recovered well enough, and I was able to dig out my poetry journals and relive the good days of my young life.