I finally dragged myself out of bed. Depression had stolen over two years of my life. Two years I wouldn’t get back. Two years where I lived in my bed, in my room, in my cave. I liked my cave. It was a safe place. It had all the necessities of life—it had a big, soft bed with lots of covers to hide under; it had a large, flat-screen T.V. that I never watched; it had a phone that I never answered; and oodles of books I never read; but it also had music, Sirius music. I could listen to whatever type of music suited my mood. And usually that was sad music. But that’s okay, it made me feel like I wasn’t alone. I escaped into the music. I spent hours poring over music lists I had made—songs that I had heard, that I wanted my husband to put on my cell phone. The lists were never-ending. The music could be heard deep in my soul.