We're deep in the heart of February, and here we are.
Yup.
Here. We. Are.
Welp.
Here, have a not-at-all-but-maybe-a-little random list of things that is/isn't depression:
Depression isn't a fleeting feeling of sadness.
Depression is long-term-to-constant, often crushing, feeling of absolute bleakness.
Depression is a beast that cannot be tamed, but may be slightly gentled through work (HARD work), medication, and cussed determination.
Depression isn't something that can be cured, and can certainly not be cured by any sort of bootstraps or their tugging.
Depression isn't something to be ashamed of.
Depression is a deep and abiding feeling of shame that haunts its bearer into silence.
Depression isn't always deadly.
Depression is always trying to kill. Every minute. Every day. Every breath. Every blink.
Depression is not showering, not brushing teeth, not doing laundry, not eating right, not eating, feeling unworthy, feeling alone, feeling lonely, not doing dishes, a messy home, sleeping all the time, not sleeping at all, not paying bills, getting lost in time, a liar and a thief.
Depression isn't laziness, just an excuse, just giving up, taking care of yourself, a matter of deciding to be well and happy.
Depression isn't always easy to see.
Depression is outright lying to any and every one about being fine.
Depression is forgetting to take medication and appointments and birthdays and life, the Universe, and everything.
Depression isn't forgetting that those things matter.
Depression isn't the inability to feel happiness, to laugh.
Depression is the ability to feel all of those things even as it is devouring the soul.
Depression isn't the inability to love.
Depression is the inability to feel loved.
And with that cheerful, partial list, I'm going to wander off into the fog and see how lost I am/can get inside my own head.
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Sunday, February 14, 2021
Is/n't
Tuesday, January 8, 2019
Doctor, Doctor
I was supposed to go to the doctor, today, but I didn't feel well enough.
Wait, what?
Hold on, I'll explain.
I was supposed to go in for a regular maintenance thing, but my innards declared war on me during the night, and not going was the better option.
To be honest, I really didn't want to go, anyway. Why bother? Nothing's changed, and I'm just not in the mood to be lectured by someone who means well, really he does, but has no idea.
It's not cheap to have a chronic illness, and doubly not cheap to have mental illness on top of that. I can't afford...my mother can't afford...all those meds, so I keep to the minimum and that doesn't mean injectables or extra pills. Those meds? Will have to wait. Maybe forever. Whatever.
But the good doctor doesn't get it. He doesn't seem to understand how depression works, how it's not as simple as just making up my mind. And sometimes I just don't want to be sternly told what will likely happen if I don't get my shit under control.
Shit under control...heh...ahem...
So maybe my innards were doing me a favor, but instead of just blowing it off I called and rescheduled. I'll go listen to him and nod and agree because it needs to be done, and maybe one of these days it'll take. Even when I'm being irresponsible, I try to be responsible about it.
How're you doing, dear reader?
Wait, what?
Hold on, I'll explain.
I was supposed to go in for a regular maintenance thing, but my innards declared war on me during the night, and not going was the better option.
To be honest, I really didn't want to go, anyway. Why bother? Nothing's changed, and I'm just not in the mood to be lectured by someone who means well, really he does, but has no idea.
It's not cheap to have a chronic illness, and doubly not cheap to have mental illness on top of that. I can't afford...my mother can't afford...all those meds, so I keep to the minimum and that doesn't mean injectables or extra pills. Those meds? Will have to wait. Maybe forever. Whatever.
But the good doctor doesn't get it. He doesn't seem to understand how depression works, how it's not as simple as just making up my mind. And sometimes I just don't want to be sternly told what will likely happen if I don't get my shit under control.
Shit under control...heh...ahem...
So maybe my innards were doing me a favor, but instead of just blowing it off I called and rescheduled. I'll go listen to him and nod and agree because it needs to be done, and maybe one of these days it'll take. Even when I'm being irresponsible, I try to be responsible about it.
How're you doing, dear reader?
Friday, January 4, 2019
Crummy Letters
Take 24 sheets of high quality paper. Tri-fold them as for sliding into an envelope for mailing. Open them. Stack them up.
That's the pile to my left. Just beyond that is the pile of torn-open envelopes. No neatly sliced open bearers of documents, these, but ripped asunder with impatience fueled by the guilt-riddled knowledge that they should have been opened, viewed, signed and sent back years ago.
No, I'm not being hyperbolic. Years.
24 letters spanning from 2012 to the end of 2018. I suspect there are others lurking in odd corners of Casa de Crazy, waiting to haunt me.
They come quarterly-ish, issued by a lawyer I've maybe met twice...three times? I don't know. He's a nice fellow and I'm likely the bane of his existence, or at least the bane of his filing system. There, in drawers neatly labelled with names or numbers or whatever he has going on in those solid, sturdy steel receptacles, is a file that isn't as thick as it should be, letters sporadically signed and returned when I find them, when the clouds part, when I remember that I really should be bothering with this, that it's a responsibility I should (and do, really, I do) take seriously, and more than take seriously, I should act seriously about it.
I'll spare you what they're about, these letters, except to say they're really a good thing, nothing criminal or nefarious, a lovely piece of legal footwork that is worthy of admiration and the scant seconds it would take me to sign and return them if only I paid attention.
Depression isn't just being tired. It isn't just eating what one shouldn't. It isn't just forgetting or neglecting medication or crying one's self to sleep, or staring into the nothing for hours on end. It isn't just anger and restlessness and feelings of being of little or no worth. It isn't just a messy house, messy hair, rumpled clothing, fighting to breathe, hiding in darkened rooms, wanting to scream, wanting oblivion.
It's not dusting. It's letting the dishes pile up and cat boxes go uncleaned. It's piles of laundry unwashed or unfolded, un-put-away. It's un-mopped floors.
And it's letters unsigned for years on end, piling up grey and forlorn until the clouds break and, in a fit of clarity, they're signed and mailed en masse to an unsuspecting lawyer who will likely stare in disbelief as he shuffles through the incomplete chronology of neglect and whisper incantations to himself in a reflexive response to what could possibly be determined as a miracle...or a curse...before passing them on to a secretary or assistant or whatever they call people who patiently take stacks of papers and order them into folders to be kept until perdition or maybe slightly less than forever.
I'd say I'll do better, now that I'm somewhat caught up again, but while that wouldn't be a lie because I mean to, really I do, it wouldn't exactly be accurate. Intention isn't action, and it's action that speaks, isn't it?
If there is a tremor in the Force, if you see a brilliance on the horizon and hear joyful trumpets shattering the air with a clarion call, if a wave of warm benevolence washes over you sometime near the end of next week, you will know that somewhere in Redneck Central a terribly nice, wickedly smart, beleaguered lawyer just received the peculiar gift of 24 signed letters the receipt of which, I hope, he hasn't been holding his breathe for but perhaps was holding out hope.
That's the pile to my left. Just beyond that is the pile of torn-open envelopes. No neatly sliced open bearers of documents, these, but ripped asunder with impatience fueled by the guilt-riddled knowledge that they should have been opened, viewed, signed and sent back years ago.
No, I'm not being hyperbolic. Years.
24 letters spanning from 2012 to the end of 2018. I suspect there are others lurking in odd corners of Casa de Crazy, waiting to haunt me.
They come quarterly-ish, issued by a lawyer I've maybe met twice...three times? I don't know. He's a nice fellow and I'm likely the bane of his existence, or at least the bane of his filing system. There, in drawers neatly labelled with names or numbers or whatever he has going on in those solid, sturdy steel receptacles, is a file that isn't as thick as it should be, letters sporadically signed and returned when I find them, when the clouds part, when I remember that I really should be bothering with this, that it's a responsibility I should (and do, really, I do) take seriously, and more than take seriously, I should act seriously about it.
I'll spare you what they're about, these letters, except to say they're really a good thing, nothing criminal or nefarious, a lovely piece of legal footwork that is worthy of admiration and the scant seconds it would take me to sign and return them if only I paid attention.
Depression isn't just being tired. It isn't just eating what one shouldn't. It isn't just forgetting or neglecting medication or crying one's self to sleep, or staring into the nothing for hours on end. It isn't just anger and restlessness and feelings of being of little or no worth. It isn't just a messy house, messy hair, rumpled clothing, fighting to breathe, hiding in darkened rooms, wanting to scream, wanting oblivion.
It's not dusting. It's letting the dishes pile up and cat boxes go uncleaned. It's piles of laundry unwashed or unfolded, un-put-away. It's un-mopped floors.
And it's letters unsigned for years on end, piling up grey and forlorn until the clouds break and, in a fit of clarity, they're signed and mailed en masse to an unsuspecting lawyer who will likely stare in disbelief as he shuffles through the incomplete chronology of neglect and whisper incantations to himself in a reflexive response to what could possibly be determined as a miracle...or a curse...before passing them on to a secretary or assistant or whatever they call people who patiently take stacks of papers and order them into folders to be kept until perdition or maybe slightly less than forever.
I'd say I'll do better, now that I'm somewhat caught up again, but while that wouldn't be a lie because I mean to, really I do, it wouldn't exactly be accurate. Intention isn't action, and it's action that speaks, isn't it?
If there is a tremor in the Force, if you see a brilliance on the horizon and hear joyful trumpets shattering the air with a clarion call, if a wave of warm benevolence washes over you sometime near the end of next week, you will know that somewhere in Redneck Central a terribly nice, wickedly smart, beleaguered lawyer just received the peculiar gift of 24 signed letters the receipt of which, I hope, he hasn't been holding his breathe for but perhaps was holding out hope.
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
The Toss
Every day (I'd say morning, but sometimes it isn't) I get up.
I get up and drag my body through the motions of getting dressed, foraging in the wild of Kitchen de Crazy for something to eat, and expending the enormous amount of effort and energy required to eat it.
After that I...
Well...
That kind of depends.
There's spoon theory, I guess.
That works.
But I think, for me, maybe Dice Theory would be more apropos.
Every day is a toss of the dice. Roll for skills, or saving throw, or whatever. Which dice get tossed depend on a number of conditions. I haven't quantified them, yet.
There are occasional positive modifiers, pluses to my roll: a good night's sleep, less-to-zero aches and pains, mental health is up, stress is down, etc.
There are negative modifiers, too, and these are more frequent, almost constant: poor sleep, stress, mental illness, discomfort-to-outright-pain, body going haywire because why wouldn't it?, etc.
These modifiers have to be added/subtracted from my roll. Basic life functions require a minimum total, and most of the time I have to roll high (not natural-twenty high, but dammit close) just to scrape through. Anything ambitious like going out into the world, interacting with people, doing more than a minimum washing of dishes in the housework department, even eating something that isn't pre-packaged and probably unhealthy, means I need to roll very high, have few or no minuses and a whole lot of pluses. It happens, and it's glorious, but it's rare. I eat a lot of cheese and crackers or pop-tarts on low-roll days.
Every day is a variable. Some days I don't even have it in me to throw the dice and count the pips (or add the numbers, really, since most of my dice, metaphorical and real, are gaming dice and pips are impractical on a D20). Many days, there's more than one toss - basic function, going out into the world, taking on a project, deep cleaning a room, taking a shower, combing my hair. If the total falls below the required number (which is different every time), it's...er...no dice. If it just makes or is slightly above the minimum, we have liftoff and may even have moderate success. High rolls and lots of pluses mean it's a go, and it's pleasant and possibly not exhausting, maybe even energizing.
A poor roll doesn't have to mean failure, it just means I'll need to work a lot harder at something that should be easy...but just isn't. A good roll doesn't guarantee smashing success, but at least it'll be easier to do the things and maybe I won't feel enervated at the end of it.
It's not fully fleshed out, my Dice Theory...I imagine it'll be a lifetime's project. Still, it kinda works for me, and I'm used to things that kinda-but-maybe-not-completely work.
What'd you roll, today?
Friday, August 17, 2018
Letting Go
I've been holding on for a long time.
Longer than maybe I should have. Longer than maybe that most other folks would. Longer than anyone else thought I could, or should.
Walking along the edge of a cliff, feeling the pull.
Longer than maybe I should have. Longer than maybe that most other folks would. Longer than anyone else thought I could, or should.
Walking along the edge of a cliff, feeling the pull.
For a while I was balanced, poised, steady. Things got a little...rocky...a little...rough...but I kept walking, kept going. "Surely the path will smooth out eventually...won't it?" became something of a mantra for me. I am tenacious (stubborn would be a more accurate description - tenacity seems to be more of a virtue, and I don't really feel virtuous), steadfast, determined to find my way along. I don't like to give up!
Somewhere along the way, I skidded on some scree. I teetered, reached for something to hold onto, found nothing but empty air. Flailed. Stumbled. Slid.
And over I went. Toppled into the sea of sky.
Somehow, before I joined entirely the wheeling denizens of the air with my own graceless, downward flight, I caught hold of an edge. Only just, scrabbling for better purchase, stone gnawing at my flesh, tearing, tattering. I sought better purchase, tried to pull myself up. I was too weak. My weight, the weight I carried, was too much. Arms trembling, fingers slipping, I tried to call out for help, but I had no voice. Perhaps I was too scared, but I like to think I was just too damned tired. I am certain that some part of me didn't care to hold on any longer. Why should I? The damage being done was too much, and holding on hurt.
Eventually, the inevitable - I fell.
It was bad, at first. Everything seized up and the air rushed past, the rock face blurred, creatures of the sky cast curious glances at my plummeting form.
Fall long enough, far enough, and you relax. Did you know that? You sort of accept what's happening, and one can only maintain that adrenaline rush for so long before the fearful becomes the norm. It wasn't fun, and I kept looking for a rope, a root, something to grab and stop my fall, but there was nothing.
It was bad, at first. Everything seized up and the air rushed past, the rock face blurred, creatures of the sky cast curious glances at my plummeting form.
Fall long enough, far enough, and you relax. Did you know that? You sort of accept what's happening, and one can only maintain that adrenaline rush for so long before the fearful becomes the norm. It wasn't fun, and I kept looking for a rope, a root, something to grab and stop my fall, but there was nothing.
I'm still falling. It's a terribly long way down, after all...
...but I think my wings are coming along nicely.
~~~~~
Someone and I are no more. We...I...have reached the point where there's no reconciling our differences. Although I didn't want to, I found myself feeling compelled to call the police a few nights ago, pushed by his drinking, his anger, his verbal and psychological abuse of me, of the kids. I'd asked him to move out some time ago, to give us some space and time to breathe, collect ourselves, patch up the worst of the damage and see if we could rebuild.
He didn't.
And then things broke down entirely, and I was dialing the phone with a stomach full of dread, a heart full of hurt, a head echoing with hateful, blaming, goading words and the sound of fists pounding on the glass shower door while I tried to wash my hair. Enough. Was. Enough.
I will not be the supply for a narcissist any more.
He will not remove himself from this house, despite having been asked and asked, so I will be forced to begin legal proceedings. I don't like this. I feel that I must, though, because what happens to me makes no difference to me, but my kids? Are another story entirely.
I did the thing I dreaded, never quite believing what I was doing even in the moment.
Here's hoping I finish building my wings before I go splat.
~~~~~
Someone and I are no more. We...I...have reached the point where there's no reconciling our differences. Although I didn't want to, I found myself feeling compelled to call the police a few nights ago, pushed by his drinking, his anger, his verbal and psychological abuse of me, of the kids. I'd asked him to move out some time ago, to give us some space and time to breathe, collect ourselves, patch up the worst of the damage and see if we could rebuild.
He didn't.
And then things broke down entirely, and I was dialing the phone with a stomach full of dread, a heart full of hurt, a head echoing with hateful, blaming, goading words and the sound of fists pounding on the glass shower door while I tried to wash my hair. Enough. Was. Enough.
I will not be the supply for a narcissist any more.
He will not remove himself from this house, despite having been asked and asked, so I will be forced to begin legal proceedings. I don't like this. I feel that I must, though, because what happens to me makes no difference to me, but my kids? Are another story entirely.
I did the thing I dreaded, never quite believing what I was doing even in the moment.
Here's hoping I finish building my wings before I go splat.
Saturday, August 11, 2018
In Which I Hit the Kitchen, But Not In A Violent Kind of Way (Unless You're A Chicken)
Awake for hours in the middle of the night? Physical pain? Depression? Relationship disintegrated? Bad dreams? Ayuh.
What to do, what to doooo...
Cook, of course, after running a couple of errands. I wanted chicken soup, but decided that I wanted more than one chicken carcass for the stock, so I bought a whole, cooked chicken at the market. Which meant I wanted to do something with the meat since I didn’t need it for the soup.
Rosemary chicken salad with cranberries, it is!
Rosemary chicken salad with cranberries, it is!
One of the reasons I went out into the world today was to get a new jar to hold the Chex Mix (not according to their recipe) I made last night. I have my beloved giant pickle jars, usually, but the're all in use right now and who couldn't use another nifty, pretty glass jar?
Score, and at 75% off, to boot!
Meanwhile, the stock is on the stove, slowly coming up to a simmer. I'm still feeling pretty rotten inside my head, so I'm going to go lie down and see if I can sleep away some of the grump. If I can't, I suspect there will be more shenanigans in Kitchen de Crazy, probably dark chocolate chip brownie type ones, possibly accompanied by vanilla-mocha buttercream frosting (or icing, I'm not picky).
How's your weekend shaping up?
Sunday, July 29, 2018
So. Much. Nope.
Holy wow. It's almost August? How is it almost August? I mean, I know how it's almost August, in theory, because time and dates and winged something and whatnot, but how the hell is it almost August???
Where have I been? What have I been doing? It was just June, just yesterday, really, just June, and now it's suddenly almost August?
My house is a mess.
How's that new? It's not, really, I'm just thinking that it can't be almost August and my house is still the same mess it was in May. At the very least, there should be a whole new mess, but this? This is the same mess. That candy cane was on the floor before I left for my father's memorial in June. Why is it still there? Why haven't I picked it up?
The glue on the dining table is the same glue, flecked with the same glitter, as it was in May. Those sharp little Play-Dough shards are still scattered about the floor, months after they forgot what it is to be soft, yielding, pliable.
I've been here. Haven't I been here? I mean, I've been hither, thither, and yon, but also I have been here, in this house. It's not like I've been held captive at some remote location, I have been here! As much as I'm "here", anyway, because some days, a lot of days, I am not as here as I may seem to be because I can look really, really here but be far, far away behind my eyes. But still, here, or "here", or whatever, how is it almost August and I'm still feeling the sweet, melancholy tug of June, the sense of "I'm not prepared for summer" still strong where "Hurrah, Autumn's coming" should be.
It is possible that I shattered a little in April, and the cracked, crazed pieces are still falling down, tinkling on the floor and crunching under foot and I'm not quite all the way caught up with myself, but I'm almost never quite all the way caught up with myself. Hell, I'm usually so far behind me I can't see my ass in the distance, even with binoculars and wishful thinking!
I am filled with nope. So. Much. Nope. Acres, gallons, miles of nope. It's everywhere, it gets all over everything, it's sticky and pernicious, like moon dust but less clean-up-able and way less precious and collectible and rare. It's clogged up my thinking bits, so that music and writing and laundry and cleaning and people and everything are all lost and muddled up, and I'm lonely in a desperate kind of untouchable way, but that's so common, I'm used to it, like a cricket chirping quietly in the garage that sometimes I hear and sometimes I don't but it's always there, chirping, and it doesn't much matter any more.
That much nope.
I'd tell you I'll do better today, tomorrow, next week, but I don't know if that's true. I kind of half-heartedly hope that I'll do better sometime sooner rather than later, but honestly, I'm in the middle of a massive nope storm, so I'm just going to keep ducking and covering and wondering how it got to be when it is when it was just when it was.
Where have I been? What have I been doing? It was just June, just yesterday, really, just June, and now it's suddenly almost August?
My house is a mess.
How's that new? It's not, really, I'm just thinking that it can't be almost August and my house is still the same mess it was in May. At the very least, there should be a whole new mess, but this? This is the same mess. That candy cane was on the floor before I left for my father's memorial in June. Why is it still there? Why haven't I picked it up?
The glue on the dining table is the same glue, flecked with the same glitter, as it was in May. Those sharp little Play-Dough shards are still scattered about the floor, months after they forgot what it is to be soft, yielding, pliable.
I've been here. Haven't I been here? I mean, I've been hither, thither, and yon, but also I have been here, in this house. It's not like I've been held captive at some remote location, I have been here! As much as I'm "here", anyway, because some days, a lot of days, I am not as here as I may seem to be because I can look really, really here but be far, far away behind my eyes. But still, here, or "here", or whatever, how is it almost August and I'm still feeling the sweet, melancholy tug of June, the sense of "I'm not prepared for summer" still strong where "Hurrah, Autumn's coming" should be.
It is possible that I shattered a little in April, and the cracked, crazed pieces are still falling down, tinkling on the floor and crunching under foot and I'm not quite all the way caught up with myself, but I'm almost never quite all the way caught up with myself. Hell, I'm usually so far behind me I can't see my ass in the distance, even with binoculars and wishful thinking!
I am filled with nope. So. Much. Nope. Acres, gallons, miles of nope. It's everywhere, it gets all over everything, it's sticky and pernicious, like moon dust but less clean-up-able and way less precious and collectible and rare. It's clogged up my thinking bits, so that music and writing and laundry and cleaning and people and everything are all lost and muddled up, and I'm lonely in a desperate kind of untouchable way, but that's so common, I'm used to it, like a cricket chirping quietly in the garage that sometimes I hear and sometimes I don't but it's always there, chirping, and it doesn't much matter any more.
That much nope.
I'd tell you I'll do better today, tomorrow, next week, but I don't know if that's true. I kind of half-heartedly hope that I'll do better sometime sooner rather than later, but honestly, I'm in the middle of a massive nope storm, so I'm just going to keep ducking and covering and wondering how it got to be when it is when it was just when it was.
Saturday, January 13, 2018
Lean
This morning I woke up weepy, and it hasn't let up. Every damned thing makes my eyes leak.
I wish I had someone to lean on.
I mean, I have people to lean on, really terrific people who love me and put up with all of my bullshit on a daily basis.
But as wonderful as these good people are, they're not next to me in the small hours when the night is heavy, pressing down on me, stealing my breath and churning my thoughts into a froth of misery.
I wish I had someone to physically lean on. A shoulder on which to rest my head for a minute when I'm worn out and feel like I can't pick up my basket of stones and carry them one. Step. More.
I'm tired of feeling alone.
Thursday, September 28, 2017
Between Sleep and Waking
Between sleep and waking there is a place of half aware, half dream, where the mind weaves the input of the senses with threads of fantasy.
In this place conscious thought and imagination are jumbled jigsaw puzzle pieces haphazardly stuck together to make patchwork pictures that defy explanation outside the nebulous, wobbling incohesion between sleep and waking.
It is easy to get lost there, between sleep and waking. Days dazed, not quite here, not quite there, scattered everywhere. What was I doing in this room? Why did I walk over there? Why am I holding this dish, this broom, this piece of clothing, this book? What was I trying to get done just now? Did I see that, hear that, was it inside my head or out?
Walk through a door and forget, and forgetfulness becomes the wet woolen batting that wraps a body up from head to toe and makes everything heavier, sort of musty, slow, unfocused. Walk back through the door, trying to remember, only to find that memory is elusive, a wisp within the mist swirling throughout the place between sleep and waking.
Minutes, hours, ebb and flow. Liquid, undefined, gelatinous, oozing time slips through slack fingers, circles the drain, and is gone before it was ever there, life passing in stilted stop-motion muzziness like some old black and white movie playing on an endless loop between sleep and waking.
Somehow life goes on in tenuous moments pasted together with cobwebs, onion skin thin and brittle and always on the edge of becoming dust in the corners of the place between sleep and waking where it will remain unnoticed, unremembered, unremarked until the errant breezes of thought and consciousness send it swirling away to become motes on a sunbeam.
In this place conscious thought and imagination are jumbled jigsaw puzzle pieces haphazardly stuck together to make patchwork pictures that defy explanation outside the nebulous, wobbling incohesion between sleep and waking.
It is easy to get lost there, between sleep and waking. Days dazed, not quite here, not quite there, scattered everywhere. What was I doing in this room? Why did I walk over there? Why am I holding this dish, this broom, this piece of clothing, this book? What was I trying to get done just now? Did I see that, hear that, was it inside my head or out?
Walk through a door and forget, and forgetfulness becomes the wet woolen batting that wraps a body up from head to toe and makes everything heavier, sort of musty, slow, unfocused. Walk back through the door, trying to remember, only to find that memory is elusive, a wisp within the mist swirling throughout the place between sleep and waking.
Minutes, hours, ebb and flow. Liquid, undefined, gelatinous, oozing time slips through slack fingers, circles the drain, and is gone before it was ever there, life passing in stilted stop-motion muzziness like some old black and white movie playing on an endless loop between sleep and waking.
Somehow life goes on in tenuous moments pasted together with cobwebs, onion skin thin and brittle and always on the edge of becoming dust in the corners of the place between sleep and waking where it will remain unnoticed, unremembered, unremarked until the errant breezes of thought and consciousness send it swirling away to become motes on a sunbeam.
Saturday, September 2, 2017
Grist
I like grist mills. I like watching the water turn the wheel, the wheel turn the big metal rod thingies, the cogs and sprockets and whatsits all interlocking and translating the motion of the water into the motion of the great stone wheels that grind, grind, grind, until what was once the dried, tough kernel of some grass-related plant turns into powder useful for all kinds of kitchen alchemy.
I like seeing old millstones used in architecture and gardening, repurposed after the grooves are almost worn smooth. I sometimes imagine making a patio out of some of those magnificent old stones, filling in between them with smaller stones and sand or planting creeping thyme or some other low-growing herb.
I don't like feeling as if I'm one of those hard shelled grains being ground down on some cosmic millstones, the wheel of time turning, turning, turning as I am worn away to nothing. I don't like feeling as if I have somehow been bound to one of those old, worn out wheels and dropped into the millpond, left to struggle in vain to reach the surface as I am dragged ever downward into the murky depths.
I feel heavy and worn and useless, and I feel as if I would cry if only I could, but I cannot.
Hello, depression.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Tipping Point
When I was a kid, there was a weird little game that, at the time, was enormous fun - Don't Spill the Beans.
Playing was fairly simple - the beans (real ones, back then) were evenly divided among the players, and then each player gingerly placed a bean onto the pot lid. Eventually enough beans were on the pot lid to cause it to tip over, and whoever made it tip had to collect all the beans. The player who first offloaded all of their beans, won.
I don't recall if I ever won a game. I played it at school, probably in kindergarten or first grade, and that seems an awfully long time ago. The sound of the beans pouring onto the plastic surface underneath was enormously exciting and especially satisfying when it was another player who caused the havoc.
Lately, I've rather felt like that pot, although slightly less goofy, teetering at the tipping point but not quite ready to fall over. Beans drop in and I wobble, but somehow manage to remain upright.
The thing is, I'd kind of like to turn upside down and dump the whole damned load, let someone else gather it up, tidy away the mess, and start over.
I feel like I'm on emotional gimbals when what I really want is an axle.
Sometimes, one needs to dump the beans (spilling sounds so passive - I like the more aggressive dumping for this), and I just can't seem to manage it.
Lately, I've rather felt like that pot, although slightly less goofy, teetering at the tipping point but not quite ready to fall over. Beans drop in and I wobble, but somehow manage to remain upright.
The thing is, I'd kind of like to turn upside down and dump the whole damned load, let someone else gather it up, tidy away the mess, and start over.
I feel like I'm on emotional gimbals when what I really want is an axle.
Sometimes, one needs to dump the beans (spilling sounds so passive - I like the more aggressive dumping for this), and I just can't seem to manage it.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Fa La La La La, La La La Blah
I'm struggling with myself right now. I'm feeling tired and worn, not entirely physically and in ways that mere sleep cannot mend.
Because he's on probation, there are things that Someone is not permitted to do, a curfew he must adhere to, and things that he must do to satisfy the terms of his plea agreement and his probation.
There are varying consequences for failing to do what he must or for doing what he mustn't. They call these consequences "sanctions".
He was doing well enough, but in the last month he's had four sanctions. He used substances bot unlawful and prohibited by probation. The first sanction was extra community service and extra AA meetings. The second sanction was 24 hours in jail. The third was 6 days in jail. Now he's on his fourth, a probation violation, and I'm told he'll be in jail until at least January 3.
He's barely been home and he's gone again.
Once again he will not be with us for Yule. It is possible that he will miss both children's birthdays as well. I am once again a single mother.
This has an impact on me, on my children, on our collective lives. Not only do we not have what income he may have earned because he cannot work while in jail, I have the added expense of paying for phone calls and commissary if I choose to do so, and I can't just leave him in there without the means to communicate, at least. I won't make the kids do without anything, but it does add to my struggle. This on top of it being a time for spending on gifts and whatnot.
I hate feeling like I can't give my children very much when it comes to prezzies. Luckily there are others in their lives who make up for my slack, people like Mom and T and K2 and Mizz A, and many more, all of whom love my children and spoil them silly. At their ages, keeping the power and water on (not a given on a good day) and food available aren't awfully interesting or important, and honestly I don't even do that on my own, so I can't take credit. Anyway, it's difficult to wrap the power, but sometimes I'm tempted to put a bow on the faucet.
I suppose I am just feeling the usual ebb that comes with this time of year. I'm so frustrated by my inability to earn income, to manage finances like a wizard, to keep up with myself...everything seems so bleak to me.
I know it's crass to talk about money, but it'd be easier to avoid talking about if so much of one's value didn't hinge upon one's financial worth and if so much of our life in this country wasn't centered on income, on cash flow.
To help combat these feelings, I'm spending as much time as I can manage in the kitchen for the next few days. It's cookie season, and while I don't have the demand for them that I used to, I still like to make up plates of cookies and give them to people. I can still manage a little holiday cheer, even when I'm feeling rather in the dumps...and if making (and saying the name of) Snickerdoodles doesn't bring at least a small smile to my face, then I know things are dire, indeed.
Seriously. Say "Snickerdoodle" without cracking even the tiniest grim. Betcha can't.
Because he's on probation, there are things that Someone is not permitted to do, a curfew he must adhere to, and things that he must do to satisfy the terms of his plea agreement and his probation.
There are varying consequences for failing to do what he must or for doing what he mustn't. They call these consequences "sanctions".
He was doing well enough, but in the last month he's had four sanctions. He used substances bot unlawful and prohibited by probation. The first sanction was extra community service and extra AA meetings. The second sanction was 24 hours in jail. The third was 6 days in jail. Now he's on his fourth, a probation violation, and I'm told he'll be in jail until at least January 3.
He's barely been home and he's gone again.
Once again he will not be with us for Yule. It is possible that he will miss both children's birthdays as well. I am once again a single mother.
This has an impact on me, on my children, on our collective lives. Not only do we not have what income he may have earned because he cannot work while in jail, I have the added expense of paying for phone calls and commissary if I choose to do so, and I can't just leave him in there without the means to communicate, at least. I won't make the kids do without anything, but it does add to my struggle. This on top of it being a time for spending on gifts and whatnot.
I hate feeling like I can't give my children very much when it comes to prezzies. Luckily there are others in their lives who make up for my slack, people like Mom and T and K2 and Mizz A, and many more, all of whom love my children and spoil them silly. At their ages, keeping the power and water on (not a given on a good day) and food available aren't awfully interesting or important, and honestly I don't even do that on my own, so I can't take credit. Anyway, it's difficult to wrap the power, but sometimes I'm tempted to put a bow on the faucet.
I suppose I am just feeling the usual ebb that comes with this time of year. I'm so frustrated by my inability to earn income, to manage finances like a wizard, to keep up with myself...everything seems so bleak to me.
I know it's crass to talk about money, but it'd be easier to avoid talking about if so much of one's value didn't hinge upon one's financial worth and if so much of our life in this country wasn't centered on income, on cash flow.
To help combat these feelings, I'm spending as much time as I can manage in the kitchen for the next few days. It's cookie season, and while I don't have the demand for them that I used to, I still like to make up plates of cookies and give them to people. I can still manage a little holiday cheer, even when I'm feeling rather in the dumps...and if making (and saying the name of) Snickerdoodles doesn't bring at least a small smile to my face, then I know things are dire, indeed.
Seriously. Say "Snickerdoodle" without cracking even the tiniest grim. Betcha can't.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
I know I've written quite a bit about depression of late. I have an idea that it gts boring, reading about it, but in part I post because if there's someone out there who is looking for words, maybe mine will help...and if there's someone out there who is trying to help, maybe these posts will help...and sometimes I need to get things out of my head somehow, and writing about it helps.
So here's another thing about depression.
I had a pretty good day, today. The Evil Genius is hanging with his father, and Someone offered to hang out with our daughter while I took some time for me.
I spent a few hours with K2, catching up and whatnot.
I found (thanks to K2) a new crochet pattern to try.
I came home and got some dishes done, listened to some music, had a bit of peaceful family time.
And all of a sudden, out of nowhere, for no discernible reason, I felt like I could cry.
In the middle of cooking dinner, I felt overwhelmed by sadness.
As the linguine bubbled in its pot, I felt a sense of futility.
As I stirred the mussels in garlic tomato sauce with white wine, I felt miserable.
As I seasoned and tasted the spinach, I felt empty and useless.
This is depression, the thief of joy, dimmer of color, taker of contentment.
It comes out of nowhere, flies back into nowhere, doesn't give a body a target to aim at, smashes and grabs and disappears, leaving a lingering greyness to life in its wake.
Nothing and no one can cure this. It is to be endured, survived as best as can be, borne until it fades away for a brief respite. It doesn't make sense, it can't be reasoned with, there is no logic to it.
I hate it. I don't hate much or many, but depression? Yeah...
So here's another thing about depression.
I had a pretty good day, today. The Evil Genius is hanging with his father, and Someone offered to hang out with our daughter while I took some time for me.
I spent a few hours with K2, catching up and whatnot.
I found (thanks to K2) a new crochet pattern to try.
I came home and got some dishes done, listened to some music, had a bit of peaceful family time.
And all of a sudden, out of nowhere, for no discernible reason, I felt like I could cry.
In the middle of cooking dinner, I felt overwhelmed by sadness.
As the linguine bubbled in its pot, I felt a sense of futility.
As I stirred the mussels in garlic tomato sauce with white wine, I felt miserable.
As I seasoned and tasted the spinach, I felt empty and useless.
This is depression, the thief of joy, dimmer of color, taker of contentment.
It comes out of nowhere, flies back into nowhere, doesn't give a body a target to aim at, smashes and grabs and disappears, leaving a lingering greyness to life in its wake.
Nothing and no one can cure this. It is to be endured, survived as best as can be, borne until it fades away for a brief respite. It doesn't make sense, it can't be reasoned with, there is no logic to it.
I hate it. I don't hate much or many, but depression? Yeah...
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Thing
I got out of bed today.
Oh, sure, I know, big deal.
Well, yeah. It IS a big deal. There's this Thing in my psyche that doesn't WANT me to get out of bed, or do anything, so it can tell me how useless I am. When I disobey the Thing and get up, it gets angry and yells at me.
So I got up and listened to the Thing grumble and complain about what a waste of time it was.
Then I did things.
The Thing doesn't like when I do things. It wants me to curl up and stare at nothing and do nothing and feel like nothing. The Thing feeds on all that nothing, and it's always hungry.
So I got up and did things. Maybe it won't seem like much to anyone who doesn't have a Thing in their psyche, but it felt like moving mountains to me. I took trash out. I cleaned a cat box. I swept cat poop up from the floor in the room they've decided looks enough like their toilet to suit their needs because I left the cat box I cleaned for too long. I did dishes, and then some more dishes. I fed the outdoor kitties and pet them. Then I did more dishes because there are always more dishes. I cleaned my toilet. I cleaned the toilet in the hall bathroom. I took a nap. I shuffled through the leaves on the driveway and crunched them under my feet. I made a lap for the indoor cats to claim in the name of Kittykind. I am writing this blog post.
All the while, the Thing is grumbling and growling and telling me how it's too much, it's not enough, it's pointless and useless and so am I. It's not a very nice Thing. It doesn't like for me to feel good about anything, to be proud of myself. It hates my music, photography, art. It hates when I sew. It hates that I figured out how to watch Netflix via the Wii because the Evil Genius's PS2 crapped out on us, and I figured it out on my own.
The Thing likes to hit below the belt. It tells me I'm a horrible mother, that homeschooling my kids is is ruining them, that every person who tells me I should put them in public school here in Redneck Central is right and I am wrong and that I'm not smart enough to teach them. It tells me I'm going to be lonely for the rest of my life because really, look at myself, who would want anything to do with that mess? It tells me everything, everything, everything is futile.
Despite the Thing in my psyche, I got up today. I get up every day. Maybe not for long, but I get up. I wash a bowl. I make breakfast for Sprout or encourage her to make her own. Maybe I sweep a room. Maybe I do a load of laundry. Maybe I run an errand. Something. I do something.
And then maybe I go lie down again, because Thing wrestling is exhausting. And maybe I think about all of the nothing I got done and feel bad. But maybe I don't lie down, because Thing wrestling is constant and I have to remind it, remind me, who's running this show.
Happiness is not a choice. Depression is not a choice. Dragging my tired, depressed self through one day and into the next IS a choice. I don't always want to, but I choose.
Every time I get out of bed, the Thing loses. Maybe some day, if the Thing loses enough battles, it'll quiet down and let me have a few minutes of peace in my head. I'd like that.
Oh, sure, I know, big deal.
Well, yeah. It IS a big deal. There's this Thing in my psyche that doesn't WANT me to get out of bed, or do anything, so it can tell me how useless I am. When I disobey the Thing and get up, it gets angry and yells at me.
So I got up and listened to the Thing grumble and complain about what a waste of time it was.
Then I did things.
The Thing doesn't like when I do things. It wants me to curl up and stare at nothing and do nothing and feel like nothing. The Thing feeds on all that nothing, and it's always hungry.
So I got up and did things. Maybe it won't seem like much to anyone who doesn't have a Thing in their psyche, but it felt like moving mountains to me. I took trash out. I cleaned a cat box. I swept cat poop up from the floor in the room they've decided looks enough like their toilet to suit their needs because I left the cat box I cleaned for too long. I did dishes, and then some more dishes. I fed the outdoor kitties and pet them. Then I did more dishes because there are always more dishes. I cleaned my toilet. I cleaned the toilet in the hall bathroom. I took a nap. I shuffled through the leaves on the driveway and crunched them under my feet. I made a lap for the indoor cats to claim in the name of Kittykind. I am writing this blog post.
All the while, the Thing is grumbling and growling and telling me how it's too much, it's not enough, it's pointless and useless and so am I. It's not a very nice Thing. It doesn't like for me to feel good about anything, to be proud of myself. It hates my music, photography, art. It hates when I sew. It hates that I figured out how to watch Netflix via the Wii because the Evil Genius's PS2 crapped out on us, and I figured it out on my own.
The Thing likes to hit below the belt. It tells me I'm a horrible mother, that homeschooling my kids is is ruining them, that every person who tells me I should put them in public school here in Redneck Central is right and I am wrong and that I'm not smart enough to teach them. It tells me I'm going to be lonely for the rest of my life because really, look at myself, who would want anything to do with that mess? It tells me everything, everything, everything is futile.
Despite the Thing in my psyche, I got up today. I get up every day. Maybe not for long, but I get up. I wash a bowl. I make breakfast for Sprout or encourage her to make her own. Maybe I sweep a room. Maybe I do a load of laundry. Maybe I run an errand. Something. I do something.
And then maybe I go lie down again, because Thing wrestling is exhausting. And maybe I think about all of the nothing I got done and feel bad. But maybe I don't lie down, because Thing wrestling is constant and I have to remind it, remind me, who's running this show.
Happiness is not a choice. Depression is not a choice. Dragging my tired, depressed self through one day and into the next IS a choice. I don't always want to, but I choose.
Every time I get out of bed, the Thing loses. Maybe some day, if the Thing loses enough battles, it'll quiet down and let me have a few minutes of peace in my head. I'd like that.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Knowing What to Call It Doesn't Always Help
It's not always some kind of sadness, depression. Sometimes it's being tired, all kinds of tired, tired to the bone, tired in body, mind and spirit, tired to the point of stupid, tired but sleepless, tired, tired, tired.
Tired of thinking everyone else is tired of hearing it.
Tired of feeling it and talking about it and hearing one's self talking about it.
Tonight, as I write this, I am tired.
I was trying to find a name for what I'm feeling, in this moment. Not just tired, but...something...something else.
It occurred to me, just now, that what I'm feeling, in addition to everything else, on top of everything else, a little louder than anything else, is mourning. I feel as if I am in mourning. So sad, and lost, and as if I have lost something only I don't know what, cannot name it, but it's gone and I won't get it back, and maybe I never had it to begin with.
And there's a loneliness to this mourning because I feel so awfully alone.
As the hours grow later, I feel it more keenly, this isolation, this absence of presence. It gets heavier and I find it harder to breath, and pretty soon I am squeezed so damned hard that I leak out my eyes, hide my face in my pillow so the strange, strangled, keening cries that lurch out of me in fits and starts don't wake my kids.
And in the morning, I get up and move through the day as if it matters that I do, move through the day in a sort of daze, on auto-pilot, doing the things I should be doing because someone, somewhere, says I should be doing them, and I can't feel anything but this sort of lost, lonely, mourning misery, and no one can see it because I'm that good at hiding it and they don't want to see it or know about it, do they, because it's all so stupid and boring, and what right do I have to feel this way, anyway, shouldn't I be grateful for the life I have?
I can't touch the life I have. It's all around me and I can't feel it.
I try to remind myself that I'm really better off than so many who feel this but don't know what it is, but you know what?
Knowing this monster that's trying to devour me whole, knowing what it is and what it does?
Doesn't mean a damned thing when it has me in its teeth.
Tired of thinking everyone else is tired of hearing it.
Tired of feeling it and talking about it and hearing one's self talking about it.
Tonight, as I write this, I am tired.
I was trying to find a name for what I'm feeling, in this moment. Not just tired, but...something...something else.
It occurred to me, just now, that what I'm feeling, in addition to everything else, on top of everything else, a little louder than anything else, is mourning. I feel as if I am in mourning. So sad, and lost, and as if I have lost something only I don't know what, cannot name it, but it's gone and I won't get it back, and maybe I never had it to begin with.
And there's a loneliness to this mourning because I feel so awfully alone.
As the hours grow later, I feel it more keenly, this isolation, this absence of presence. It gets heavier and I find it harder to breath, and pretty soon I am squeezed so damned hard that I leak out my eyes, hide my face in my pillow so the strange, strangled, keening cries that lurch out of me in fits and starts don't wake my kids.
And in the morning, I get up and move through the day as if it matters that I do, move through the day in a sort of daze, on auto-pilot, doing the things I should be doing because someone, somewhere, says I should be doing them, and I can't feel anything but this sort of lost, lonely, mourning misery, and no one can see it because I'm that good at hiding it and they don't want to see it or know about it, do they, because it's all so stupid and boring, and what right do I have to feel this way, anyway, shouldn't I be grateful for the life I have?
I can't touch the life I have. It's all around me and I can't feel it.
I try to remind myself that I'm really better off than so many who feel this but don't know what it is, but you know what?
Knowing this monster that's trying to devour me whole, knowing what it is and what it does?
Doesn't mean a damned thing when it has me in its teeth.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Counting Down to Nothing
Was it only seven years ago that I hid my face and you pulled my hands away and kissed me so deeply and my toes curled and my head floated and everything was possible and it was all before us spread like wings ready to carry us into the glorious sunrise?
And was it only seven years ago that I lay like that beside you, curled into your side , you arm wrapped around me and I was safe and warm and slept like I hadn't slept in years and nothing could touch us and we were incandescent and unstoppable?
And was it only seven years ago that I listened to your heart and your murmuring voice and we watched the night slide past the window and never counted the minutes or hours because we were outside of time wrapped in sheets and blankets and each other and music?
Was it only months later that your rage first burst through the veneer and shattered everything with hateful words and drunken slurs and for hours paced the hall and rooms and circled itself and us and snarled and glared and accused and finally left me ignored and alone wondering what the hell happened so I could be sure never to do it again, but it wouldn't matter how hard I tried, would it?
Was it only six years ago that I told you we'd made a life and asked what would we do and you walked away for a few minutes and came back and wanted to keep on and a moment more for you to find the joy in it and me wondering if I'd done the right thing in telling you and should I have been quiet and made it all go away but I can't do that, it's not in me to do that, and anyway didn't you say yes, let's do this?
And was it only six years ago you put your shaking hand on my swollen middle, grossly distended and writhing with the child within and felt her press herself against it and give a mighty shove as a hello to her Papa and you wept and grinned even and I felt utterly alone because your smile was for her but not for me and the only reason you wanted to touch me at all was to feel her and you had been so angry, spoken such angry words, had such angry eyes and when you were done touching her through me you turned your back on me and left me bereft beside you?
Was it five years ago that she came into this world, a lithe, wriggling, howling little girl who immediately became the focus of everything until she kept you awake at night, until she needed attention that stole from your pool and you shouted at me to keep her quiet and goddammit, you were so sick of the whining and I answered yeah, and the crying baby doesn't help, either and you exploded into dark fire and I turned away and sat with her, rocking, rocking, rocking, listening to your vitriol and letting it wash over, wash past, flow through this house like a river, holding her close and singing endlessly while she slept unaware of what you used to be or what you'd become and just so small and perfect and ours?
And weren't there those days, those few horrible days, when it could have been cancer, or not, and we'd find out, and there was a procedure that meant no sex and somehow that turned into me rejecting you and you were angry, resentful, bitter and I was left alone to wait for the results while you stared at the computer screen and wrote sweet, secret words to some other woman who mocked and jeered at me without my knowing and fed your ugliness so it grew large and threatened to smother me and I couldn't even give voice to my fear because somehow that would mean I didn't care about you and was just selfish?
Was it only four years ago that you had to go live in another place, still tied to us, still of our life yet of your own because your anger had become another resident here and we couldn't survive or thrive with it crawling through the walls and oozing around our feet?
Was it three years ago that you began to disintegrate and I didn't understand why but I knew what I saw wasn't right, wasn't you, but you, but something else was shaping you and it wasn't love any more and your eyes were wild and your words accusing and spiteful and everything and everyone was against you and there were lies and secrets building walls around you and somehow, somehow, somehow it wasn't your fault and everyone else did it and I was the chiefest among them, never knowing what it was I did to make this monument of misery that caged you in?
Was it two years gone that you called me and I didn't recognize the number but took it anyway, against my nature, and heard the recording from the jail and went cold and couldn't feel my legs or face and my mind went numb and I accepted the call and you told me you'd been arrested and it was wrong and all the things you needed from me, that I had to do, and I cried for days and you raged at me over the phone because I didn't know how to do this and tried but it wasn't good enough?
And was it only two years ago that I forewent medication so the money would be there for you, for bond and books and snacks and phone calls to me and phone calls to other people and I drove every week with our daughter to see you but you still insisted that I didn't care about you and nothing I said or did could convince you and I started to lose the feeling in my toes but it wouldn't have mattered to you so I didn't mention?
Was it only one year ago that I couldn't see the end, couldn't find my way out of your anger and hateful words and looked forward and saw only a bleak future trying to protect my children from your addiction to anger, the bitterness and horrible words, when I chanced to look into the mirror and saw a worn, grey, tired face staring back out at me, dead eyes telling me everything that I already knew?
And now...now that it's over and I've been alone, alone, alone all this time and fighting to stem the tide and finally given way and let yet more anger crash over my head like storm-built waves and cried damn near every night as I thrashed restlessly in the bed that was once a haven and a joy but now is a reminder of how alone I am, cried because there's no arm to hold me, there's no one to lean on, lean against, tell my dreams to, laugh with, touch and love and it's me and these kids and now you have sweet words and see the pain you've caused and want to make it right, but now, now, now I am empty and trying to see myself but I can't look in the mirror because I still see that used up, useless person and I need to be someone else, I need to shine and I cannot shine in my own eyes and I wonder if I will ever shine again, for anyone, ever, and will there be an arm around me that is the warm, loving, cherishing, comforting arm that I so need, desire, want, offering a few minutes' sanctuary from the world, from my mind.
And was it only seven years ago that I lay like that beside you, curled into your side , you arm wrapped around me and I was safe and warm and slept like I hadn't slept in years and nothing could touch us and we were incandescent and unstoppable?
And was it only seven years ago that I listened to your heart and your murmuring voice and we watched the night slide past the window and never counted the minutes or hours because we were outside of time wrapped in sheets and blankets and each other and music?
Was it only months later that your rage first burst through the veneer and shattered everything with hateful words and drunken slurs and for hours paced the hall and rooms and circled itself and us and snarled and glared and accused and finally left me ignored and alone wondering what the hell happened so I could be sure never to do it again, but it wouldn't matter how hard I tried, would it?
Was it only six years ago that I told you we'd made a life and asked what would we do and you walked away for a few minutes and came back and wanted to keep on and a moment more for you to find the joy in it and me wondering if I'd done the right thing in telling you and should I have been quiet and made it all go away but I can't do that, it's not in me to do that, and anyway didn't you say yes, let's do this?
And was it only six years ago you put your shaking hand on my swollen middle, grossly distended and writhing with the child within and felt her press herself against it and give a mighty shove as a hello to her Papa and you wept and grinned even and I felt utterly alone because your smile was for her but not for me and the only reason you wanted to touch me at all was to feel her and you had been so angry, spoken such angry words, had such angry eyes and when you were done touching her through me you turned your back on me and left me bereft beside you?
Was it five years ago that she came into this world, a lithe, wriggling, howling little girl who immediately became the focus of everything until she kept you awake at night, until she needed attention that stole from your pool and you shouted at me to keep her quiet and goddammit, you were so sick of the whining and I answered yeah, and the crying baby doesn't help, either and you exploded into dark fire and I turned away and sat with her, rocking, rocking, rocking, listening to your vitriol and letting it wash over, wash past, flow through this house like a river, holding her close and singing endlessly while she slept unaware of what you used to be or what you'd become and just so small and perfect and ours?
And weren't there those days, those few horrible days, when it could have been cancer, or not, and we'd find out, and there was a procedure that meant no sex and somehow that turned into me rejecting you and you were angry, resentful, bitter and I was left alone to wait for the results while you stared at the computer screen and wrote sweet, secret words to some other woman who mocked and jeered at me without my knowing and fed your ugliness so it grew large and threatened to smother me and I couldn't even give voice to my fear because somehow that would mean I didn't care about you and was just selfish?
Was it only four years ago that you had to go live in another place, still tied to us, still of our life yet of your own because your anger had become another resident here and we couldn't survive or thrive with it crawling through the walls and oozing around our feet?
Was it three years ago that you began to disintegrate and I didn't understand why but I knew what I saw wasn't right, wasn't you, but you, but something else was shaping you and it wasn't love any more and your eyes were wild and your words accusing and spiteful and everything and everyone was against you and there were lies and secrets building walls around you and somehow, somehow, somehow it wasn't your fault and everyone else did it and I was the chiefest among them, never knowing what it was I did to make this monument of misery that caged you in?
Was it two years gone that you called me and I didn't recognize the number but took it anyway, against my nature, and heard the recording from the jail and went cold and couldn't feel my legs or face and my mind went numb and I accepted the call and you told me you'd been arrested and it was wrong and all the things you needed from me, that I had to do, and I cried for days and you raged at me over the phone because I didn't know how to do this and tried but it wasn't good enough?
And was it only two years ago that I forewent medication so the money would be there for you, for bond and books and snacks and phone calls to me and phone calls to other people and I drove every week with our daughter to see you but you still insisted that I didn't care about you and nothing I said or did could convince you and I started to lose the feeling in my toes but it wouldn't have mattered to you so I didn't mention?
Was it only one year ago that I couldn't see the end, couldn't find my way out of your anger and hateful words and looked forward and saw only a bleak future trying to protect my children from your addiction to anger, the bitterness and horrible words, when I chanced to look into the mirror and saw a worn, grey, tired face staring back out at me, dead eyes telling me everything that I already knew?
And now...now that it's over and I've been alone, alone, alone all this time and fighting to stem the tide and finally given way and let yet more anger crash over my head like storm-built waves and cried damn near every night as I thrashed restlessly in the bed that was once a haven and a joy but now is a reminder of how alone I am, cried because there's no arm to hold me, there's no one to lean on, lean against, tell my dreams to, laugh with, touch and love and it's me and these kids and now you have sweet words and see the pain you've caused and want to make it right, but now, now, now I am empty and trying to see myself but I can't look in the mirror because I still see that used up, useless person and I need to be someone else, I need to shine and I cannot shine in my own eyes and I wonder if I will ever shine again, for anyone, ever, and will there be an arm around me that is the warm, loving, cherishing, comforting arm that I so need, desire, want, offering a few minutes' sanctuary from the world, from my mind.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Molehill Into mountain
Oy. I needed to lie down for a bit. While I was not napping, Sprout decided to take her scissors and cut up the lounge cushion, on the side that was still sound, and pull out some of the stuffing.
She has been dealt with, I don't need advice or admonishment about that.
I'm frustrated because she KNOWS not to do that. We all like the lounge, but this may be the death knell for it. I can repair a lot, but this? May be beyond my skill given where the cut is and the use that particular piece of furniture gets.
Sigh.
If I have to toss it, I'm leaving that space empty until I can get something NEW to put there...not a hand-me-down or cast off (mind you, I'm not saying those haven't been grand because if it weren't for hand-me-downs and cast offs I'd have had very little living room furniture and it's been just fine but sometimes a gal wants something new and right now I could USE something new and I'm willing to wait for it and maybe we aren't just talking about furniture here), but something I choose that suits me.
Double sigh.
Can't see that happening any time soon.
And for some reason I just want to cry and curl into a ball and give up.
When I said I wanted to declutter and purge, I didn't mean the things we actually use.
She has been dealt with, I don't need advice or admonishment about that.
I'm frustrated because she KNOWS not to do that. We all like the lounge, but this may be the death knell for it. I can repair a lot, but this? May be beyond my skill given where the cut is and the use that particular piece of furniture gets.
Sigh.
If I have to toss it, I'm leaving that space empty until I can get something NEW to put there...not a hand-me-down or cast off (mind you, I'm not saying those haven't been grand because if it weren't for hand-me-downs and cast offs I'd have had very little living room furniture and it's been just fine but sometimes a gal wants something new and right now I could USE something new and I'm willing to wait for it and maybe we aren't just talking about furniture here), but something I choose that suits me.
Double sigh.
Can't see that happening any time soon.
And for some reason I just want to cry and curl into a ball and give up.
When I said I wanted to declutter and purge, I didn't mean the things we actually use.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
What We Don't Show the World
I can't always remember who I was thirty or more years ago. I know I was headed down a different road. I know I wasn't the me I am now. I know I still carry her in me, carry her hurts and fears and anger and scars. I know I carry her memories, even as I cannot recall them.
I remember people, and I remember what I thought they thought of me, but I know that my perceptions were skewed and I can't trust them today, but I'm too much a coward to reach out, reach back, and find out what's real and what's figment.
This is what mental illness does to me.
I have such clarity of memory, when I remember. Little things, scenes, a few words here and there, so crystalline and detailed down to the scent on the wind and the color of the trees and sky, but then when asked if I recall this or that incident, I stare blankly and shake my head - some seminal event is nonexistent in my noggin.
Everything I have experienced since a very young age had been filtered through depression, through shattered self-confidence and negative self-worth, through the tangled and thorny hedgerows around my mind and heart, until it bears no resemblance to its original form.
Still, today, I struggle with receiving information as it is given rather than through all of those horrid, dark, devastating filters.
I must remain honest and open even when I fear that my honesty and openness are costing me happiness, because that happiness would be built on falsehood and I could never trust it. I must remain honest and open even when I am afraid and want to curl protectively around myself and hide because how can my compassion and love grow if they are kept in the dark?
What we don't always show the world, what we don't always show even those closest to us, is how we tremble within, how terrifying it is to be open, how damaged we feel, how unworthy, how unwanted, how lonely, how lost. It's too much, too much to ask anyone to understand or bear with, and we've lost so very much, so very many, showing what we don't always show the world.
Still.
There's more to gain, isn't there, in revealing than concealing?
One small step at a time, I will show the world.
I remember people, and I remember what I thought they thought of me, but I know that my perceptions were skewed and I can't trust them today, but I'm too much a coward to reach out, reach back, and find out what's real and what's figment.
This is what mental illness does to me.
I have such clarity of memory, when I remember. Little things, scenes, a few words here and there, so crystalline and detailed down to the scent on the wind and the color of the trees and sky, but then when asked if I recall this or that incident, I stare blankly and shake my head - some seminal event is nonexistent in my noggin.
Everything I have experienced since a very young age had been filtered through depression, through shattered self-confidence and negative self-worth, through the tangled and thorny hedgerows around my mind and heart, until it bears no resemblance to its original form.
Still, today, I struggle with receiving information as it is given rather than through all of those horrid, dark, devastating filters.
I must remain honest and open even when I fear that my honesty and openness are costing me happiness, because that happiness would be built on falsehood and I could never trust it. I must remain honest and open even when I am afraid and want to curl protectively around myself and hide because how can my compassion and love grow if they are kept in the dark?
What we don't always show the world, what we don't always show even those closest to us, is how we tremble within, how terrifying it is to be open, how damaged we feel, how unworthy, how unwanted, how lonely, how lost. It's too much, too much to ask anyone to understand or bear with, and we've lost so very much, so very many, showing what we don't always show the world.
Still.
There's more to gain, isn't there, in revealing than concealing?
One small step at a time, I will show the world.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Where do we go from here?
My relationship with Cygnus has taken many blows.
We have survived the complications of polyamory (his complications, as I have never been able to make other connections, have other relationships), both as they affected us and as they impacted other relationships. We have survived cheating and lies (on his part), rage , alcoholism, and drug addiction (again, on his part), and being pushed through the meat grinder we call a justice system.
We have survived advertisements on Craig's List for NSA (No Strings Attached) sex for him while I was out of town, and the anonymous mailing of printouts of those ads to me, and the repeat of the advertising months later. That I knew about the first lot beforehand didn't make the second easier to bear when I learned of them not through discussion, but through seeing them on my screen thanks to others pointing them out.
We have survived his alienating every one of my friends and family members and many of the people I call community out there in the world.
We have survived my mental illness, kids, weather, his moving out, and his insane jealousy at the mere idea that I might be talking to another man (with no intent to act sexually, plainly stated to everyone with an interest at the very beginning). He can't even stand that another man once complimented me very prettily and made me smile and blush because of it.
We have gone through so much.
But.
Now, nearing the end of his time in prison...now...we are not surviving. We are failing. I am tired. I am tired of the abuse. Tired of being told that everything I do is not enough, or not good enough. I am tired of the narcissism. I am tired of the anger. Tired of the blame. Tired of the bitterness. Tired of being denied my emotions or emotional support because of his anger. Tired of feeling as though I must dim what scant light manages to shine forth from me because it threatens his ego, his fragile sense of self. Tired of feeling that I must live only for his sake. Want to know what it is like? Go read this. I did, and cried, because yes.
I have tried to save us. I am a strong swimmer, a strong woman, but I can't save the titanic if I'm the only one bailing. Now, too little too late, he is trying to talk, saying he wants to do the work. Now, after insults and lashing out and words calculated to devastate, now when I have told him honestly that something has broken, has died, inside me and I don't know if it can be repaired or revived, now he wants to make the effort, and...
And I don't think it's working.
I know it's not working.
I know it is futile.
I found some value in myself, and he tried to kill it. I did something I'm proud of and he railed against me for excluding him. I strive to provide a childhood for our daughter and he complains about what he's missing rather than exulting that she is experiencing wonderful things in the world through the many people who adore her.
I get it. He IS missing out, he IS stuck in prison, but we're imprisoned, too, and I yearn to be free. I have to be free. I have to be able to breathe, to sing, without worrying that somehow I will wake the slumbering giant of rage and it will terrorize us. It's not right to expect us to molder away here, stuck in the moment in time when HIS choices put him where he is, but expect that, he does.
I have tried to tell him over the last few nights, but he won't hear me, keeps trying to turn the conversation to something hopeful or distracting, and I'm too damned tired to fight him for conversational supremacy but I have to, have to make him understand that this isn't his home any more, that I will love him forever but can't live with him any more, we are not partners and haven't been for a very long time and I don't have it in me to carry us both any more.
I'm lonely, and tired, and aching, and lost. There's no road map through this place. Where do we go from here?
We have survived the complications of polyamory (his complications, as I have never been able to make other connections, have other relationships), both as they affected us and as they impacted other relationships. We have survived cheating and lies (on his part), rage , alcoholism, and drug addiction (again, on his part), and being pushed through the meat grinder we call a justice system.
We have survived advertisements on Craig's List for NSA (No Strings Attached) sex for him while I was out of town, and the anonymous mailing of printouts of those ads to me, and the repeat of the advertising months later. That I knew about the first lot beforehand didn't make the second easier to bear when I learned of them not through discussion, but through seeing them on my screen thanks to others pointing them out.
We have survived his alienating every one of my friends and family members and many of the people I call community out there in the world.
We have survived my mental illness, kids, weather, his moving out, and his insane jealousy at the mere idea that I might be talking to another man (with no intent to act sexually, plainly stated to everyone with an interest at the very beginning). He can't even stand that another man once complimented me very prettily and made me smile and blush because of it.
We have gone through so much.
But.
Now, nearing the end of his time in prison...now...we are not surviving. We are failing. I am tired. I am tired of the abuse. Tired of being told that everything I do is not enough, or not good enough. I am tired of the narcissism. I am tired of the anger. Tired of the blame. Tired of the bitterness. Tired of being denied my emotions or emotional support because of his anger. Tired of feeling as though I must dim what scant light manages to shine forth from me because it threatens his ego, his fragile sense of self. Tired of feeling that I must live only for his sake. Want to know what it is like? Go read this. I did, and cried, because yes.
I have tried to save us. I am a strong swimmer, a strong woman, but I can't save the titanic if I'm the only one bailing. Now, too little too late, he is trying to talk, saying he wants to do the work. Now, after insults and lashing out and words calculated to devastate, now when I have told him honestly that something has broken, has died, inside me and I don't know if it can be repaired or revived, now he wants to make the effort, and...
And I don't think it's working.
I know it's not working.
I know it is futile.
I found some value in myself, and he tried to kill it. I did something I'm proud of and he railed against me for excluding him. I strive to provide a childhood for our daughter and he complains about what he's missing rather than exulting that she is experiencing wonderful things in the world through the many people who adore her.
I get it. He IS missing out, he IS stuck in prison, but we're imprisoned, too, and I yearn to be free. I have to be free. I have to be able to breathe, to sing, without worrying that somehow I will wake the slumbering giant of rage and it will terrorize us. It's not right to expect us to molder away here, stuck in the moment in time when HIS choices put him where he is, but expect that, he does.
I have tried to tell him over the last few nights, but he won't hear me, keeps trying to turn the conversation to something hopeful or distracting, and I'm too damned tired to fight him for conversational supremacy but I have to, have to make him understand that this isn't his home any more, that I will love him forever but can't live with him any more, we are not partners and haven't been for a very long time and I don't have it in me to carry us both any more.
I'm lonely, and tired, and aching, and lost. There's no road map through this place. Where do we go from here?
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Little Wonders
Today we had some pretty good moments, if of the small sort.
Casa de Crazy had to have a new roof. The roofers started yesterday and the kids had a blast watching the goings-on. I had a headache, but it was kind of fun to watch. The Evil Genius discovered a nano-copter he was given for Christmas and charged it up, and all three of us had a lot of laughs over his efforts to fly it. Our friend A came for dinner and to play with the kids, and that was a riot. That was yesterday.
Today the roofers came an hour earlier than they said they would, surprising me with overhead thumps and whacks. They also finished in less than an hour, cleaned up all the scraps and nails and whatnot in the yard, and removed themselves before I even finished my first cuppa tea. The new roof looks quite nice and I have hopes it will last as long as the old one and so have to be replaced long after we have vacated Casa de Crazy for friendlier climes closer to my mother.
Sprout and I goofed off outside for a few minutes and I raced her to the van. She won, but only because I got distracted by a cat. We both laughed like loonies, which makes sense because I am one.
Errands were rather hum-drum, but I teased Sprout by making animal noises every time the game she was playing on her Papa's phone made a sound. Lots of meowing, quacking, and bleating in the van, and she was giggling constantly. She said she likes it when we are silly. Poor kid, there's not enough silly in her life. I'm working on that.
This afternoon I needed a nap - up hours and hours earlier than usual and short on sleep, there was no slogging through to a second wind. I had to sleep. While I slept, the Evil Genius and Sprout played with his nano-copter. That poor thing has crashed into darned near every surface in this house. It's looking a little rough but gamely soldiering on with its flights, and the kids think it's marvelous. I even flew it a little and got it to hover in place for a few minutes!
If all of this sounds dull, inane, well...it is. But it's also something out of the ordinary for Casa de Crazy. Yes, depression is still trying to swallow me whole, and yes, it will likely do so until something else snuffs me, but these little things are huge when they've been absent for so long. I'll take the grains of sand. I know that with sand I can build some pretty impressive castles.
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