&*#! U Depression. I’m here to stay.

For some of us it’s situational and for others it’s a chemical imbalance.  For some it’s triggered by screaming people in our faces, reminding us of childhood abuse and for others it’s the long hot shower turned cold because we can’t fathom how we’re going to finish the day.  For some, bi-polar disorder, PTSD, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Mania ….. showing up to work hoping you can make it until noon so you can drive around the block and sit at  the corner and cry it out or hell, not even making it out of bed on a Tuesday.  Tuesday’s are hard.

Truth.   Depression you DO NOT OWN ME.  I will refuse to allow you to take me down.  I will get help.  I will see my therapist.  I will take my medication.  I will eat right.  I will exercise.  I will tell the people I love the most when I am hurting instead of isolating.  I will REFUSE, do you hear me now, I will REFUSE TO TAKE THIS LYING DOWN.

I will write a book about you.  How you tried to kill me.   And I will save others because if I am here for good …. SO ARE THEY.

Believe.  Hard.  For whatever reason.  Depression ?  @*(# ….. WE ARE HERE TO STAY!


Redemption.  Coming Soon to Amazon.  Follow me at @courtneyfrey on Facebook for details on Friday’s launch!


Heal a Heart for Christmas

R_fcYour best friend confided in you.  Your sister wants to change.  Your relationship with your mom is broken.  Your husband struggles with your depression.  Whether for you or for someone in your life, Restitution is a message of hope that speaks loudly, “YOU ARE NOT A VICTIM ANY LONGER!”  It is a novel-like approach, based on a true story, that embodies the triumph over pain we all seek and hope for.  Give the gift of healing to someone you love today.

BUY NOWhttp://www.amazon.com/Restitution-Courtney-Frey/dp/1620066564/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1451061495&sr=8-1&keywords=restitution+courtney+frey


You’re Not Alone

_Out in the country she screamed, but no one heard her._Your journey is exceptionally priceless, all of what you’ve endured and gone through; every bit of pain and agony – is not in vain.  The endless tears you’ve cried, the midnight rage, and the lonely hours of what seems like eternal solitude; are known.  You, my love, are not alone.

Sometimes we do not need someone to fix it all.  Sometimes, we don’t need anyone to tell us it will all be okay.  Once in a while, take heart, it is okay to sit with the pain.  It can teach us.  It can mold us.  It can share a lesson of compassion, understanding, faith, and resilience with us.

You, my friend, are not alone.  Restitution is a novel that explores what it means to face countless unfair injustices and weather the tides of fear, abandonment, insecurity, and depression.  It is a story of struggling with faith, a journey of three friends who rely on one another, and ultimately the truth that nothing is ever in vain when you turn your pain to purpose.

You are not alone.


It’s Not In Vain. Your Experience Counts.

It’s Not in Vain.  Your Experience Counts.


Someone once asked me, “How can you possibly say that the abuse you suffered had a purpose?”  I had to take a slow breath and respond softly, “The abuse didn’t have a purpose …. My survival did.  There’s a difference.  When I say that nothing is in vain I’m implying that in anything we overcome in life we can find a seed of hope, a place of choice – that choice is to cower or challenge.  Learn and grow, or give up.  There is power and purpose to learning and growing through our experiences.  So, no – the abuse isn’t the purpose …. My choosing to overcome the effects of it is.”

She paused for a moment and then, through brimming tears whispered, “I want to know what that feels like.”


In Restitution, the novel, you’ll meet several characters who overcome incredible and sometimes tragic events by refusing to allow others to steal from them their opportunity to overcome in the first place.  Join the email list now for upcoming events, pre-launch information, and much more.  Get involved in the movement.  Is it time for you to challenge yourself?  You’re not alone.  Join now!

Restitution the Movement: Take back what is rightfully yours!


Ever feel that a part of you has been stolen away, pieces of you that you can’t seem to heal?  How often do you isolate from the fear of telling – is your voice unheard?  You are not alone.  Join with me, in Restitution, as we travel together with four young girls who travel the path from pain to healing.  Nothing is ever in vain.  You have a purpose.  We are waiting for you.

Restitution … coming soon.  Join the mailing list now for special updates going into pre-launch.  Also, visit our facebook page to join with others on this journey.

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Until I Knew





I never knew a laughter that could bend me silly.

I never tasted a fulfillment that could make me lick my lips.

I never came across my own shadow and played hide and seek just for fun.

I never talked out loud and learned something.

I never sang until my throat dried.

I never knew peace in silence.

I never knew love without expectation.

I never paused long enough to smell the rain.

Until I knew me.

Woman in the Rain









One simple day when I was alone, I unwrapped myself like a child stealing a peek at a present.

At first I laughed … bent over and silly.

Then, I dug in and tore away the layers.

I played with the shadows until they were all found.

I talked out loud until I began to speak truth.

I danced around and sang so loud it made sense.

Then, I grew quiet and found love.

And then it rained.

And now, I know.

I Decided Today, I’m Not Dead

“Start where you can … and deal with one thing at a time.”


My Purple Crate

My Purple Crate

I’ve pulled poems and stories from my old purple crate to read aloud, twice more, to my growing children through the years.  Delightful, I shared, “Mommy wrote this when you were only five!” Their youthful faces staring back, blank.  Perhaps too young to grasp all I had needed to tell them, I began to write their stories in vivid colors with characters in a single story book.  I pulled it out through the years to remind them of “Fi-like-a-lot Forest,” and “On Tuesday,” each reading spurred my excitement and further bored them nearly to tears.  Yet, I still wrote.

My children grew.  I captured nearly every moment in writing.  Placed it haphazardly in the old purple crate against the smell of tried wood and a sigh that perhaps one day they would read them all and then I would be real.

A secret compartment in my purple crate held the tragic stories of my past.  Countless essays written to ease the burden I carried for all I had suffered.  The first book I’d written, pages inked with the darkest secrets of my family’s past, tucked down deep into the dark corner of my crate.  I still remember an Uncle’s words after having passed out thirty copies at a family reunion, “Burn it.  Burn the book.”

Heavy, on top of “My Sonnet’s Soul,” sits “Restitution,” my second novel.  The days that turned to weeks, that stole that year from me while I puked up every memory in an attempt to give it purpose.  The book I will never publish.

Several old worn folders, bent around the edges, covers stained with coffee lie stacked inside a crate.  They hold the hundreds of articles I wrote as a free-lance author, those words that led the way for my third book, the only one I ever had the courage to put to print. The last remaining copies, there are three, are there – in a manila envelope, with all the emails from women thanking me for having the guts to speak the truth.  They are dusty.  I have long forgotten what truth I thought I saw.

If my crate would speak, I would hear the cries of a woman who spent half a lifetime trying to make it all matter somehow.  If I write it, it’s real.  If it’s real – surely, it means something.   Then, before I could stop it, my children began to drive cars and motorcycles, they began to graduate and leave home.  I wrote more.  I spent hundreds of dollars on frames and hung pictures of them on walls that filled quickly, and occupied my memory by refusing its forward movement.

And then there was no more room in my purple crate.

For whatever reason, as I recovered from back surgery and could do little more than get lost in my head, I chose that day to open the purple crate.  The immensity of all I had written and kept suddenly seemed void of any real purpose.  My children had their own lives now, and these stories I tried to tell were long gone.  I held them in my heart for a brief moment, settled myself with the truth that this purple crate had been, all these years, my eulogy.

I decided today I’m not dead.  It took hours to separate its contents into piles, one for each of my children.  School report cards, Mother’s Day cards, Kindergarten artwork, and letters and stories each their own.  I gave them a new home in plastic tubs, labeled their names, sealed their lids.  It felt absurd that over twenty years of writing all fit into one plastic tote.  For the first time in eighteen years, I saw the bottom of my crate.  It was empty.

I sat among the four neatly organized plastic containers, and just as I set myself to grieve, a wave of relief washed through me.  Recalling one of my favorite therapists first words to me, “We’ll start where you can … and deal with one thing at a time,” I smiled.  I’d clung to and kept every memory of my past, mixed and scattered among all of the joys and blessings until finally, after over thirty five years I realized  I’d been begging the world to see and tell me I mattered, that nothing I’d gone through had been in vain, hoping through years of trying to heal from it all that someone, anyone, would find my crate.

The stories of my life had become heavy with the absence of my living it.

And finally, I learned how to write about it.