Bastille Day--Go French!

I turn 39 today. Thirty-nine. No matter how I write the number, it doesn't seem real. I was supposed to be a happily married writer of some renown. Or at least not being a flop-house for the demons that I can't rid myself of. (Dangling preposition--Mr. S.)

I'm divorced, jobless, on disability, clinically depressed, and living in the Mid-West. The only thing I have to be proud of here, is that I am company for my 95 1/2 year old grandfather. Compared to that number, I'm not old. But I feel thus.

How many new starts am I supposed to have? Why do I still jump when I hear a text come in, thinking it is my alcoholic whatever--we are together but separated.

When...

When I am comfortable with my job, when the principal leaves, when I pay off my student loans, when my husband goes back to work, when I get divorced, when I'm Catholic, when T. goes to the doctor, when T. gets out of rehab, when I find...when...then I will start living.

We all do that--when...

For me right now, today is a new start. Sure I still feel depressed--depression is like cataracts. Depression obscures your vision. Intellectually, you know that you should enjoy going to the movies, cross-stitching, etc. but there's a disconnect there. Guilt, fear, isolation. Yes, I can eat the best piece of peanut butter pie in the world and 'enjoy' it, but still not FEEL it. Depression is a self contained bubble that keeps the world and real joy at bay.

If Christ asked me today on my birthday, "Do you want to go Home?" I might very well say yes. My goal is to be in a place where I would not say yes.

I'm told to feel proud of my accomplishments, and intellectually I can understand that perspective, but not emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. I have college degree, an MFA, 13 years of teaching, journalism stories that did matter, a home, a cat...

But we are greater than the sum of our parts. That's why being depressed is so fucking hard. Your own expectations sink from having fun to not thinking about killing yourself. I failed these lat 39 years. Well, let's say 27 years. I made good choices, but the bad ones are the ones from which I suffer. I know I am blessed and it makes me more guilty that I can't be more grateful and happy.

I think the WHEN is now. This is the WHEN. This if life. Huh, not what I expected at all.

"I had to come all the way from the highways and byways of Tallahassee, Florida to Motor City, Detroit to find my true love. If you gave me a million years to ponder, I would never have guessed that true romance and Detroit would ever go together. And to this day, the events that followed all seem like a distant dream. But the dream was real and was to change our lives forever. I kept asking Clarence why our world seemed to be collapsing and everything seemed so shitty. And he'd say, 'That's the way it goes, but don't forget, it goes the other way too.' That's the way romance is. Usually, that's the way it goes. But every once in awhile, it goes the other way too."

True Romance, 1993

Please, St. Jude, St. Michael, St. Brigid, St. Therese, Christ, Mother Mary Mary, God, Please let it go the other way too.

And on this day-my 39th Birthday I do hereby swear if any man in my life claims to love me and threaten to 'fucking kill me' and 'smash my fucking teeth in...you stupid fucking cunt...'--it will not work out very well for him. Only one person can talk to me that way--Myself.

And if any boss ever tells me again that my signature is unacceptable because of the way I write my signature, too fucking bad for them. 

I am done changing and swallowing and shutting-up.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em. God Bless.