My temper gets louder and my patience shorter, my hope seems more dim and suddenly the worries are bigger- more exemplified.
For a full day I suppress this, wondering if I can combat it, ignore it, or if my only choice is surrender.
But it is lonely here, with my mind in overdrive and my heart still racing. Suddenly it all feels so very much. Too. Much.
My sons are outside playing on the large play set their nana bought them with their late grandfather's inheritance. They laugh and work together, pushing the youngest on the swing and trying to figure out how to reach the bar- now elevated by it's links, to a high, daring height.
The boys delight themselves to reach it, mount it, and then sway.
"Look at me!" They shout, "Look at me go!"
I watch because they are there and they are my present.
Just be in that moment.
I began this essay weeks ago.
As I look over my blog posts, I have begun seven, finished only one, and published zero since March.
It is Mother's Day today, May 12th.
Happy Mother's Day, sweet mommas!
Today these same boys I look upon adorningly and I yell at too frequently, they are my prize. My great reward. They know the sound of my heart- from the inside!
I still feel this weight.
The one I began to write about in the beginning.
The one which looks like stress on some days and ceasing to continue on others.
To lose heart, says yourdictionary.
The feeling began to stir and I spoke with Big Strong Man because it is fair he is forewarned. Futhermore, he can pray for me.
Then my momma and I got into a disagreement, words were exchanged in angry, hurtful tones, and there was silence on the airwaves for a week. This intensified my aching heart by tremendous measures- I deeply love my momma.
I twisted my ankle while running.
We got a handful of unexpected bills.
Demetri had ear and throat surgery.
And I began taking some medication which freaked my system out royally and sent me to bed and reaching for additional meds. day after day. (I took myself off that crap because, NOT TODAY, SATAN!)
Communion was passed today after worship and I passed it by. B.S.M. gave me a look and all I could say was, "my heart isn't ready".
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| pixabay.comhttps://pixabay.com/photos/search/trees/ |
Amanda Lindsey Cook, I wish I knew you. I wish we were friends, talking on the phone.
You did an interview with Annie F. Downs and repeatedly I stopped, took it in, and began again.
So. Much. To Say. (You can listen, here.)
In no particular order, you encouraged (in loose quotes):
Trees know things that
we aren't willing to look at;
Trees surrender to the Fall,
they surrender to benevolence and trust.
We are taught endless Summer;
We are allowed to have Winters
And this feels like a Winter.
Like a dark, cold, lonely time.
So I slept the days away and ignored the outdoors: sun and fresh air. I cancelled obligations and stayed in my pjs all day. I fed Thatcher a steady stream of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse so that I could sleep in the recliner and I did it all in a fog.
Depression feels like a fog.
I called my momma today, to wish her a Happy Mother's Day.
I called my step-momma and my mother-in-love as well, but....
My momma.
To her I cried because I could not take today's communion knowing it was off between us. Knowing I hurt her and that I am hurting and it is all too much.
"Who do I talk to about these depressions?", I asked, knowing full-well that I have a husband and a counselor, but I desire a dear friend.
And I desire her. Peace with her. Peace between us.
Amanda speaks too close to my own thoughts when she says that she:
[Does not want to be] the energy drain in the room.
"Just melancholy Amanda, in her happy sadness."
"I just don't want to drain people", she said, and I nod my head in acknowledgement, agreement, comradery.
Yes, Amanda, I feel that too.
So I keep to myself, more willing to share on here than to any one listening ear.
I am ashamed and feel the weight of being too much.
And the depression sometimes comes.
And I rebuke it and fight the anger that it returns.
Why does it return?
It isn't a daily reminder, a daily torment, but one that sneaks in like the carpenter ants we cannot remove from our house. The large ants, wandering around like guests. And I watch as one walks from the fireplace to the stairs, to the old dresser beneath our television and I see how quickly it moves and it further annoys me.
Depression is like this, moving quickly and with some false supremacy.
The most ironic piece of this, and there are many, is that I love the Winter.
How things like time seem to freeze, and this childlike wonder falls upon every last one of us.
It's the snowflakes seen against the streetlights. And the fireplace lit with logs.
It stops us momentarily from the hustle and bustle and beckons us to see.
Like the rain.
I love the rain.
I love that it is made most lovely with a good book, hot chai tea, and a nap.
So I do not fight the Winter.
I enjoy the calm. The hush. The white earth.
Why is depression compared to Winter?
These are my confessions.
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