Everything is itchy. My skin, my eyes, my head. I’d like to take off my skin because for the last three days, I have not been at home in it. I feel sketchy, dodgey and raw.
I sat down to finally write last night. And you know what’s a great feeling? To sit down to write and have the crap-writing come out of my mind and through my fingers and press out onto the letters of my computer keyboard. All my little inner critic kept saying as I was typing was
BLAH BLAH BLAH BLABETTY BLAH
and that’s super-duper helpful to hear when you’re just trying to eek out a blog post. And then I thought,
I’m never going to ever write anything meaningful again. Dribble Dribble Dribble.
It’s cold this morning. 49 degrees and noses are pinked with chill and coats are pulled just a bit tighter and closer to everyone’s bodies. I got home and the house felt a lot like the outside. I walked into my office to write and I did what I always do: turn on the overhead light, turn on my desk lamp and light my Aunt Sadie’s Tree in a Can candle. The flicker of the candle sends up smoke signals of tranquility. My finger tips are cold because I don’t want to turn on the heat.
I’ve suffered from depression for more than a decade now and I would think that I would get better at understanding and recognizing her inky marks, indelibly weaving through my mind like an octopus’ …
Well shit, my phone is ringing and it’s Hubby and I should answer it because he probably just needs something quick.
Yup, it was quick. But now where-oh-where is that train of thought??
Oh yes, depression weaving through my mind like an octopus’ ink. Powerful yet subtle, noticable but ethereal. Depression. Geesh. I’d really like to just not have depression any more. And when I write or talk about depression, I start to imagine what I think the recievers of my malaise-filled depressive meanderings will think. Here’s an example:
BLAH BLAH BLAH and Blah. Um, yeah, Denise, we all got the memo. You suffer from depression. (mental eye roll)
And well, I think that’s shitty of me to think that because that gives the people in my life, the most important people in my life, way-less than the benefit of the doubt. Really, what I’m doing is pushing my judgments of myself onto others; my depression tires me and I judge myself for suffering from it and I think myself weak for continuing to struggle.
And you know what else? I find it difficult to distinguish between regular self-doubt, from which I know we all suffer at times, and depression. Because for so many years, depression has provided a filter through which I experience life. Is it normal to have days turn into weeks when you feel like everything you say and do is quite drab and uninspired and boring? Is it normal to be so uncomfortable in your own skin that you’d like to molt out of it?
I wish you could see my hair right now. Because I’m so itchy I just wanted it all out of my face so I did crazyshit to it while I was writing. Oh wait! I’ll take a picture!
Ok, so I just stopped writing to take a picture of my hair and I noticed that in the photo, you can see the random cowlick that travels the maternal lines of my family. My grandmother had it and my mother has it and now, apparently, I have it. Good times.
Oh I want to check my Twitter feed. And my email. And my text messages. Must. Not. Look. At. Social. Media.
This morning, after dropping the kiddos at school (and doing the high-five happy dance with myself because I was SO ready for them to be at school, after four days of togetherness and a solo-parent weekend), I blared my music in the car. After listening to Bach’s Bradenburg Concerto at a deafening volume, my iPod played Erasure’s Respect.
This line jumped out at me:
And if I should falter, would you open your arms up to me?
Would you? I realized that this is one of my deepest desires: to show all my gritty parts and still be accepted, loved and walking into empathetic, open arms.
I feel that a good cry would help my misaligned mood quite a bit. A new favorite Rilke quote floats into my mind:
But in these dancing tears, what is often withheld can be found: our strength.
I wish the tears would come.
Thanks to Heather from Extraordinary-Ordinary for hosting this cool Just Write movement. I approached this exercise as a sorta free-flow, train-of-thought writing exercise and the above ramblings are the result. Lucky, lucky you. xo