Dear Hearts,
Clinical Depression is a special torture of Zub’s.
Your thinking is distorted. You can’t intellectualize or logicize your way out of it. Shrinks, therapists, family—they all tell you that you are not a failure, you will feel better, you’re still young and pretty and just because G-Pa got thinks your driving sucks doesn’t means he doesn’t love you and you don’t have to keep apologizing to your parents for this illness that you suspect you could really just snap out of if you were strong enough and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have a $65,000 real job because you are happier now and when you have panic attacks and your brain is saying FLEE FLEE FLEE CRISIS DANGER that it’s really okay and that there is a future for you and bleeding out is not the best option.
You can’t see that. You can’t fucking feel that. You are disconnected. You take a day off.
Today, I am taking the day off and I am already chastising myself for not appreciating it more and then your sister says you are in this great place where you can restart your life but each is not any fun and then you berate yourself for wasting time even though all you really wanna do is die anyway.
If I am suicidal, why do I worry about germs? Why do I worry about how healthy I eat? (For me, I am somewhat careful because of my UC) What does it matter how many cigarettes I have? Why bother epilating my legs?
Depression is certainly not the only disease that attacks the brain. If it really is a disease at all, and not just some weak excuse for being pathetic. So if you can’t reason—you can’t solve the problem.
When I had a blocked sinus and I had to have surgery—I understood that. Okay, the surgery will unblock the sinus and straighten the deviated septum that didn’t bother you for 32 years. There is logic. The pain I endured before and after the surgery—I knew it would end. I knew I would get fixed. I went to an ENT because my sinus infection wouldn’t go away. After much ado, it was fixed. I have X, so I do Y, and then I am Z.
Depression don’t fucking work that way. It invades every part of who you are and twists it around. Zub robs you of happiness, enjoyment.
I took today off. As in no drives, no taking care of G-Pa (he doesn’t need me to feed him), no responsibilities. I am going to use my part of my “Abortion Fund”* to buy myself a grilled chicken sandwich with swiss, mushrooms, fries, and an extra think strawberry milkshake. Sans the Visine. Gallows humor. It was an exciting idea for a minute—but now…whatever…
Zub takes everything you enjoy and numbs you to it. Every day I lived with Arthur for a long time his goal was to make me suffer. He told me so. “I like to see you suffer,” he said. Zub has picked up in his place.
I couldn’t tell G-Pa the truth last night—that I needed a day off. So I concocted a note around 11 p.m. last night about how “It was 3.30 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep but I was hoping to after taking a sleeping pill and to not expect to see me before noon.” Total lie. (I know you don’t like me lying, Aunt Faerie. I’m sorry. I just…) I just wanted to lie in bed and read the post and drift back and forth between sleeping and waking. I didn’t eat breakfast until 1 p.m. Today is the perfect day to take off because Aunt Faerie is taking G-Pa (she didn’t ask me) to the Friendship dinner tonight. A small crew of old people and Aunt Faerie or I get together, get on a short bus, and go to a restaurant to eat together. G-Pa always gets his food last. He doesn’t like it. And, I don’t drive right. ‘Cuz I am not motherfucking getting on any short bus with old people. Let me clarify—with ANY people! I don’t do buses. So Aunt Faerie is taking G-Pa to dinner tonight beginning with picking him up at 4.30 p.m. Early Bird Special with a side of Ben Gay, anyone? Who the fuck eats at five-fucking-thirty in the afternoon?
The other night Bugsy had to jump in and say he did when he lived with his mom ‘cuz he got up at 4.30 a.m. Okay, Bugsy, fine. You’re right. There is an exception to every anyone says and you know what it is. Even when I got up at 4.30 a.m., I didn’t eat at 5.30 p.m.
So I will have this block of time all to myself at the house today!! No one will be here! I made coffee and put it in the fridge and even made coffee-ice-cubes! I can read, smoke, pray and howl all by my lonesome! OMG! Yay! And, maybe I open all the blinds and windows for the whole neighborhood to see me walking around the house in my somewhat-revealing summery dress! No body can get mad at me and I can’t disappoint anyone if I am alone!
Mom and I had a spat on the phone. I called her all kinda excited about this Catholic NJ Retreat Center. A week (or less, up to me) of silent retreat. You talk to a “Spiritual Director” once a day. You can go to Mass at 11.30 a.m.! Not some crazy-ass 7 a.m. hour. I don’t have to wear the mask. There is a place to smoke. Nebraska is a long way to go and I imagine the Ranch is pretty busy right now. The NJ Retreat Center doesn’t have wi-fi in the rooms, but they don’t take away sharp objects or search your person and luggage. If I don’t like it—I can leave. I can get from the NJ Retreat to my parents’ house. It’s a little over an hour. You can’t leave a nut house.
Mom, I am looking for a magic bullet—a cure, because I DON’T WANT TO FEEL LIKE THIS ANYMORE. I talk and talk and talk and still…so maybe if I don’t talk but pray, write, cross-stitch, draw, read scripture and connect to God in my way in a Holy Place—maybe that will work. Maybe I can hear God then.
I don’t expect any retreat to fix me. But, I need something else here…and drugs and talk therapy ain’t gonna fix it.
I am out of my life. No internet. No responsibilities. No social interaction unless I want. Me and God. No distractions.
I’m sorry, Mom. I am sorry about every fucking thing all the fucking time.
G-Pa drove himself to P. this morning for an MD appointment—I offered to go. Tonight, he is going back to P. to eat. About 35 miles round trip. Yet, he STILL ASKED ME TO TAKE HIM FOR A DRIVE TODAY?? WTF? I was vague and just said that Aunt Faerie was picking him up at 4.30 p.m. I feel responsible for him. I feel responsible to entertain him, to make sure he has all that he needs. I am being ALLOWED to live here after all.
OMFG. Aunt Faerie just got here to pick G-Pa up. 4.12 and, she already has the Ed, a cognitively impaired man G-Pa’s age in the car. I knew from her and G-Pa’s convo last night that she was trying to assure him that picking him up at 4.30 would be plenty of time—but that made G-Pa nervous. P. is 25 minutes away. She left work early, early to pick up Ed and then G-Pa to make him happy.
See, I come by my need to please genetically.
And Aunt Faerie heard from G-Pa about how her driving sucked all the way up to and back from Chicago when they went to the graduation party Sunday.
It can’t be fun for him to live like that. When we have guests—seldom—removing all traces of my actually using the living room. Shutting his bedroom door so the repairman won’t judge him.
I have a theory on him. First, Gram was and is a motherfucking saint to have been with him and loved him all those years. Second, he always had to be “Perfect” because not only was he an Orphanage Kid, but also his Dad, you know, did that THING. And, ever since appearance is everything. He is a good man and I love him, but I just want to bop him on his mostly bald head sometimes and say, “STOP IT!” He is good enough, better than, regardless of the lawn.
Good people in my life…not Arthur, T., Boss Lady, or The Principal Bitch…Good people tell me that I was smart and charismatic and funny and pretty and compassionate. But Zub’s voice is much fucking louder than everyone else.
People aren’t gonna change. Zub isn’t gonna change. I have to change.
*The Abortion Fund: When I was like 12 or 13 I found this cheap plastic gold-painted apple. It was sparkly. I loved it. I used it as a piggy bank. At some point—after the junior high bullying had taken its toll on me it was my “Emergency Fund.” In case I wanted to run away or I needed an abortion. I know. What? I was so far from having sex at that point—but in my mind, I guess, that was the worst trouble I could get in---pregnant out of wedlock? I didn’t fully comprehend was an abortion even was. But after Pretty Woman came out—that was my career goal going into High School. To be a hooker. Seriously. Men wanting me = love. That is a whole other therapy session, but the point is that when I older and Mom and I found this golden apple with like $120 in it, I told her what I had intended to use it for. We had a good laugh. She keeps it in her bedroom and borrows from it occasionally (quick cash) and tells me to use the Abortion Fund to buys things, like a tonight’s dinner.
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; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
Grateful For:
UC in remission
Health
Amish pumpkin cinnamon rolls being bigger again
Family
Faith
A day off
Angel
Coffee
Cigarettes
Cross-stitiching
UPDATE:
Mom is 100% correct. A silent retreat—where I have to share a bathroom and can’t have my own food-is not going to fucking help me. That’s why, just being honest, I want to die sometimes: hopelessness. It’s never gonna be any different than right now except I’ll be older and less attractive. I gotta find the hope…”the thing with feathers…”
No comments:
Post a Comment