“What is it made of…what shape is it…and the color, what is the color?” I just stared. My 22^nd therapist (real number) and none of them had posed questions like this. Not even close. On the surface they seemed obtuse, but cut right to the heart of my reason for being there--- 45 agonizing years of Depression.  Minutes passed before I looked her in the eyes and said, “there are 2 massive rectangles. One crushing my sternum, the other my belly. They are made of granite and most of the time they are black or variations of gray.” She asked, “what is your favorite color?”  “Used to be yellow but now orange and why are you smiling?”  “An optimistic color so there is hope.” Two days later per her direction, I was painting huge slabs of cardboard bright orange as I envisioned the massive black rectangles choking on the paint and crying out in pain. That was 4 years ago. Sadly, my Depression marches on. But 3 hours a day I find a safe zone among my pile of paints and pastels and pads.  Painting takes my mind off my mind.  My variation on meditation.  I start with no idea in mind. The shapes or colors I draw early on dictate where to go. I adore color, but rarely do a piece that does not salute Black. That will never stop.  My Depression will not allow it---- and it’s why many of my pieces strike Me as battlefields awash in many colors and lots of black---- always black… always with me.  And it’s this BLACKNESS that demands I seek relief in the vibrancy of color. Constant PAIN gives me a big kick in the ass to keep going… and yes my Depression will be right there along for the journey, for now we are ONE.