I strongly believe that true recovery from illness born from trauma is possible, but you have to allow people to experience joy, to be stupid at times and heal at their own rate and to not talk about it if they do not wish to, for they will when they want.  Conversely, for the distressed, chasing happiness can be disastrous.  

In a wondrous world Julie screamed 

The essence had run dry 

Where once was joy and butterflies 

Now seemed like dust and dirt and lies 

With chaffed bare hands and battered knees 

She scratched the arid earth 

Digging deeply frantically 

A shallow puddle to unturf 

For Julie felt that if she found 

Some water underground 

She could renew the arid earth 

So life and beauty would abound 

Yet nothing came but lice and stones 

And clouds of swirling black 

Her tears the only liquid here 

The bright Sun burning on her back 

The memories of sweet release 

Of frolics, fun and friends 

Of dabbled dew and lily pads 

Of woodlands, fields, dunes and fens 

These urged her onwards, deeper down 

So desperately she dug 

Not heeding any pleas to wait 

She travelled further through the mud 

The small oasis Julie found 

Was many feet below the ground 

Quite shut off from the world above 

A shallow joy of broken love 

And then the rains began to fall 

Water flowed down the walls 

But nothing good this deep could grow 

An impatient soul’s lost shadow 

The raindrops splashed her face and neck 

And laughed at her distress 

She screamed and clawed and tried to climb 

But was far too deep down the mine 

The arid earth began to bloom 

Larks, daisies, sweet perfume 

Lush grass and verdant meadows too 

Pools, and tadpoles, a life anew 

And as the world above rebound 

Julie was nowhere to be found 

A pitiful and hollow sound: 

Alas. In the well, Julie drowned.