Dear Hearts, Depression works like the waves at the Jersey Shore. T. took me to Florida and I never knew the ocean could be so clear, blue, and calm. (He was drunk then too.) There is a metaphor there somewhere...Growing up going to the Jersey shore I learned that some waves you can let carry you and some waves smack you down into the under-tow. Some you can take on just by strength and knowing the right moment to swim into the wave. But there is always a moment when you just aren’t sure…
Last night, I felt like perhaps the puzzle pieces were coming together. Here. For me. In Illinois. For a clinically depressed person, the threat of happiness is terrifying. That feeling can come and go so quickly that it can’t be trusted and afterward you feel worse than you did before. Just stay at the baseline of depression. Happiness? Noooo. Too risky.
I spent over an hour writing a blog post today but it sucked. Well, it needs editing.
Martha, my therapist, gave me homework. Every time I have a bad thought about myself, mark it down on a piece of paper. Like I’ll be walking and all the sudden the demons in my head are like, “You are a bad person.” Where did that come from? I’m just walking to the bathroom.
NO, I do NOT hear voices.
Everybody has that little voice in his head. I have always had a fucking committee. And I have come to realize they are a committee of demons. It is the fight for Heaven up in there. St. Michael versus Lucifer, baby. (Theologically, as Martha found out today, I have a whole theory and lots of questions about Lucifer, but I digress.) Lucifer is the Father of Lies. Wow. Asshole (my ex-husband) and T. must really know Lucifer well. No wonder T. won’t go to confession.
See, right there. I am a bad person for judging them. Pope Francis wouldn’t judge them. But I ain’t the pope.
The biggest difference between Asshole and T. is that surprisingly Asshole never talked to me the way T. did. Ever. But T. was sorry. T. would cry. Until the next time. So that’s not abusive, right? If the person is in a diabetic episode and is really sorry? Perhaps. But T. was in a drunken black-out and just didn’t fucking remember. He was saying what I wanted to hear.
T. doesn’t know I’m done with him. I have this whole excuse that I want to do it in person. T. hasn’t called or texted me saying that he is sorry and he fucked up and I’m the best thing that ever happened to him and he begs my forgiveness and he can’t live without me. If T. is done with me, he’s not saying. But T. is supposed to be pining for me. He is supposed to be a drunken mess without me. Not Christian. Do know how many times I picked him up off the floor? BUT HE BROKE MY HEART. I digress.
So Martha wants me to mark down every time I have a bad thought. Um, not gonna do it. I would be marking every five minutes literally.
Guilt. Fear. Shame. Regret. Sadness.
That’s how depression works. It just comes over you like a funeral pall. You just hafta hope that it will lift a little and you can peek outside of coffin. It’s when you can’t peek outside the coffin at all that things get bad.
Please, Saint Michael. Fight those mother-fuckers.
And I am still terrified to go to work again on Friday and Saturday. I just keep thinking of ways I can fail…
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.
PS: This nothing to do with my post particularly. But I understand American History was made last night when Hillary became the first female major party nominee. Um, this is not news. What was she going to do? Say, oh, I changed my mind? Am I supposed to feel surprised? Do I feel more empowered as a woman? No. I think it is tragic and speaks to the very core problems of our culture and society that such a woman is the first female major party nominee. And I will take that special place in Hell that Madeline Albright promised me, as a woman, if I don’t vote for Hillary. Hail Margaret Thatcher and Condoleezza Rice.
No comments:
Post a Comment