Bury My Lovely
So. This depression thing.
You know, I hate hate hate it when I hear someone say that depression feeds artists. Van Gogh and Poe are my favorite sited examples. Oh, such art came out of their depression! Bullshit. Such art came out despite their depression. They would have done MORE if they HADN'T been depressed.
Depression eats artists.
I figure, if I can get the laundry done and the dishes, and feed the guys, I'm functioning.
If I make it through the day without crying, tomorrow might be ok too. If I can't, then I wonder what's happened to me. Because this crying all the time? This isn't me.
And the nights. Lying in bed just after the lights go out, my thoughts in a white noise panic over what I cannot control. All the things that happen to all of us.
I wonder what kind of effect this is having on the boyos. I try not to let them see me cry. I've gotten good at it. I try not to snap at them when they ask me the same question five times in a row. I'm not so good at that.
All my days aren't so bad. Last Tuesday was a good day, a stupidly good day. No school, no work, so O took the boyos out on errands. I wandered alone in a sort of stupor from garden supply store to plant nursery, vaguely searching for a tabletop grow light to get some seeds started. Really, I just walked around in the sun on that late halcyon day looking at pots and seed packets. I bought a primrose.
I could have gone home and napped, but I pulled into The Home Depot instead, parked next to our other car, went in and searched the aisles.
I heard them before I saw them.
“Hello, family,” I said.
Last time this lingering sadness happened, I got out of it by finding a full-time job that didn't involve ripping off CNN for a now-defunct transcription and radio broadcast company whose name you heard at the end of Oprah or Donahue or various other talk shows. That was 12 years ago. I'm facing the same thing now. So why not enact the same solution?
So I thought about what I wanted to do with the next part of my life, for money. I kicked around an idea. It involved going back to school; heavy-duty school. I told my mom. She encouraged me because it involved health care; her field. But it intimidated me, both the school and the idea of still not finding a job afterward.
Then there was my answer, standing quietly against the back of my brain, like a wallflower at a dance. I got excited. So excited, that I had tears in my eyes as I Googled away. I could do this. I wanted to do this. This would help people. This was something I understood. Sure, there was retraining involved, but I didn't have that feeling of intimidation when I thought about it. And it was still in health care.
I talked to my mom again, shot my new idea past her.
The silence said everything.
The middle conversation was, “Well. You wouldn't be able to get health insurance for the boys if you did that.” (Might I mention, they already have health insurance.)
And the conversation ended with the usual, “But you're smart. You can do anything you want.”
Now when I talk about it, my voice goes all quiet. And I find I can't even mention my idea here.
None of this really has anything to do with why I've got 'walking depression.'
They say losing someone is supposed to get easier as time passes. In this case it doesn't. I'm getting hit hard this year. Remembering what happened. Trying to get it into words. No, that's not true. I've got the words. I know exactly how I would tell the story. I'm just trying to decide if it would help.
The first seedlings poked through the dirt this morning; pumpkins and watermelons the boyos planted in little paper cups. Every year it's a new miracle to me. Every year I don't believe it will happen.
Then it does.
And if there's a God in heaven, the tomato seeds I planted will not sprout on March 1st. Any day but that one.
There is some poetry I will not put up with.