“I’m just looking forward to when the baby gets here and everything slows down a little.” ~ Hubs

“It was BECAUSE of the hair dye that I pooped on the floor, you jerk!” ~ Anonymous

“If I didn’t live with my best friend, I’d be really really lonely right now.” ~ Me to Hubs
“I know. If I didn’t live with me, I’d be really lonely right now, too.” ~ Hubs

“You’re mean! I’m going seal-clubbing without you!” ~Hubs

When I excitedly texted my husband the news that A John Waters Christmas was coming to DPAC in December, I got the response, “That’s so… you…” I got the same response a day later when I revealed that I was going to be a drag queen for Halloween and, like the time before, I felt myself get a little discouraged.

What did that meeeeaan? To knock off “I [heart] Huckabees”, how am I being more myself? And why did the idea of being so remarkably predictable depress me so much?

Was it because I don’t like the idea of being pigeonholed? Maybe I have a fear of someone “figuring me out” before I do. Or maybe I’m scared that everybody else has defined the “me” that isn’t really the “me” I want to be judged just yet… I’m not ready to submit my work…

Or maybe it’s the fear of being defined by something so tiny or insignificant that freaks me out. Like, people have immediately started thinking of me when they hear about the Muppets, which touches my heart because I do, incidentally, adore Jim Henson’s work, but I never want to be “that girl who really likes Muppets” with no other attributes to my name.

I think that’s one of the reasons I feel the need to justify my ridiculous passions for things so often. And, after visiting a friend of mine a few weeks ago, I kinda realized how unnecessary that is.

I have this friend who’s always just been open and happy with the things about life that she loves, regardless of whether or not it’s socially chic. She’s been like this since I met her and presents her love for things like Cheerwine, Waffle House, and thrift store shopping in such a way that you, too, feel the need to love it and kind of wonder why you don’t have such an inherent passion for these things like she does. There’s never been any apology from her to anybody, nor does she try to justify her love for whatever it is that she has allegiance to… she just loves it and kinda doesn’t care whether anyone else does or not. Unfortunately, like most things, I didn’t bother to learn from her example until just recently - like, just before I wrote this thing.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with just loving something just to love it, anyway? And why the hell did it take me so long to realize that it’s perfectly okay to embrace the things I love instead of trying to play them off like they’re the annoying younger sibling I have to drag around with me? Why don’t I just start the party wagon and get excited when other people jump on board instead of trying to act like it’s some deep, dark secret?

Yes! I love John Waters! And drag queens! And the work, life and mind of Jim Henson fascinate and move me! Yes, I know more about Sesame Street than most people know about their own families! Yes, I spend too much money on books every month! Indeed, I really do love spending time with my almost-3-year old because she’s more fun than most people. Yes, I get a high from writing a really well-thought-out paper on something intelligent; I also love karaoke like its a drug! I love the band STYX and I have seen them in concert! Yes, I have a crush on Peter Dinklage because confidence is hot and he’s got that, talent and a sexy voice! Yes, I want Tina Fey’s career so bad it hurts! Yes! I still wear bellbottom (not just “bootcut” or “flare”) jeans on a weekly basis. I still listen to Ace of Base’s “The Sign” album when I’m having a crappy day (except for the title track, actually)!! Yes, I love Girl Scouts and look forward to leading my own troop and singing all the campfire songs and doing all that stuff I used to do when I was in it! Yes! I think abandoned tobacco barns are beautiful and I want to make a coffee table photography book of them!! Indeed, I still listen to grunge or early-90’s-alternative at least 40% of the time I’m listening to music  (another 40% is devoted to classic rock.) Yes, I love fresh produce and eating lunch outside and foreign films in tiny cinemas and living in North Carolina and singing the harmony of old protestant hymns and playing dress up and showering outside and “Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends” and the Powerpuff Girls and stopping at weird places on road trips and terrible local advertisements and old old books and yellow umbrellas and Greek coffee and redneck flea markets and tunics and hilariously irreverent old people!! I love all this and more!!

And, honestly, if people define me solely by the potentially lame things that I adore, I’m kind of just flattered they were paying attention in the first place.

Literally since I could write, I’ve been keeping a journal in one way or another. It’s not something I started doing with an end result in mind - unlike everything else I’ve ever done - but was, in fact, something I just did, like eating or breathing or picking my nose in traffic.

And sometime during the development of my mental illness, writing became a compulsion, causing me fits of  anxiety or insomnia if i couldn’t put on paper what was hurling itself around and blocking my consciousness. Even after years of therapy and recovery, I found myself unable to just be still and silence the noise. Even if there was nothing wrong, my brain just wouldn’t shut the hell up for two minutes and give me peace. It seemed that, no matter how badly I wanted to, I couldn’t stop finding something to obsess over or protest or belabor. And the only release was to write it down. And then, sometime in there, the compulsion became to write it publicly and I adopted this 21st Century mentality that nothing I do is worthwhile if I don’t splatter it all over the Internet.

I began to disgust myself.

And then, about two months ago, my brain finally acquiesed. I’m not sure what happened (and I’d hate to fit a stereotype and say that it was solely because of Burning Man, although that was certainly the first major event that called my mental change to my attention) but, sometime in the last couple months, I’ve been able to actually enjoy a moment without worrying about what it means in The Grand Scheme of my life. I’ve been able to savor events and sights and people without immediately needing to share them with anyone else. And, most notably, my brain has finally FINALLY let me live directly in the present. There’s no more constant worry about whether or not I’m wasting my life, there’s no more anxiety or admonishment about whether or not I’m who or where I should be… It’s incredible.

And the mental settling goes farther than that, as well. I don’t feel the need to get angry at political controversy over which I have no control; now, if I see something that hurts my heart, I’ll see what I can do to help or change the situation without wasting time getting angry at the inevitable idiot commentary… this is practically UNTHINKABLE if you were to look at my track record. I don’t get angry much anymore - either something is bad and needs love and concern or something is so bad that it’s hilarious and I’ll respond accordingly.

Oh, hey, I’m not saying I’ve found nirvana or anything. I’m not selling all my possessions to live and work in Calcutta… I’m just saying that, for some reason, after more than a decade of praying for it, I’ve been granted a little bit of serenity for once. And it is just as fantastic as I’d always hoped.

So that’s why it’s been so quiet around here. Sure, I’ll share a few pics and thoughts on Facebook and Twitter, but getting out into the real world and turning it all off so I can enjoy this new brain phase has been bliss.

Yesterday I was having one of those superhuge sob sessions about something unimportant (read: I need to put on my big girl panties and get over it) when the Bear noticed and decided to mediate.

Taking the stance of a warrior, she declared, “I KISS IT BETTER!!!”, ran over, pulled my hands away from my face and gave me a prolonged, “mmmmMMMMMMMWAAH!!!” on the cheek.

I’m kinda jealous; my kisses aren’t that effective at problem-solving.

I’ve started penning my own eulogy. And I genuinely enjoy it.

Okay, right there I’ve come across like some zitfaced emo kid who’s obsessed with death and crying out for attention because all the girls just want to be friends and his dad is never home to play catch with him but I swear that’s not even close to where this is going. Just hear me out. I’m not dying, I’m not planning on dying, I don’t have a feeling like I’m going to be dying soon and I honestly don’t even think about death that often at all. I’m not going through another depression, either. I promise. In fact, everything is really wonderful right now.

But, since I’ve had my daughter, I’ve had to start taking into consideration that I’m probably not going to be on this physical plane forever and I’ve had to make arrangements to accommodate her needs once I’m no longer around - something that I really hope doesn’t happen until I’ve had a chance to travel the world with her and my husband. (Being a “grown up” means having crappy responsibilities like making game plans for after your demise. Gross.) Since I have nothing but a guitar given to me by a Grammy award winner/Broadway star and some jewelry to leave to her, my legal list of post-mortem gifts is pretty short. My list of demands for my carcass’s maintenance is equally short, merely requesting that it be cremated and disposed of somewhere pretty and non-urban. (And if anyone spends money on a piece of furniture and a hole to plant me in, I will haunt them in the most annoying ways possible, every day of their remaining lives. The same goes for anyone who puts an “In Memory Of” sticker on their car for me or puts flowers on the place where I bit it - roadside accident locations, etc. - or posts their sentiments on my Facebook wall instead of sending my family a note or pairs my name with the abbreviation “RIP” in any forum. I’m not even kidding. I’ll go through poltergeist training and wreak some Spielberg-quality havoc.)

And then I started thinking about funerals and getting weirded out. The whole idea of everyone getting together and crying over my remains (hopefully ashes at that point) and saying nothing but great things about me and acting way more reverent than they ever would in my presence just seems so incredibly pretentious and phony. Not to mention a total drag.

But what I hated the most about the idea of my own funeral/memorial service is the idea that I wouldn’t actually have any active part in the affair and, to be blunt, I’m not cool with that. If we’re going to sit around and talk about my life, I wanna be able to chip in a couple sentiments, too. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.

Now, a while ago I penned a letter to the Bear to tell her everything I want her to know in case I don’t get a chance. I’ve also written one to each of her potential caregivers, to relay a couple principles I desperately want my child to grow up with. I also rarely go a year without telling everyone in my life how I feel about them and I’m just one of those bothersome people who always has to come right out and say whatever it is that needs to be said so I never have to say “I should’ve told them when I had the chance.” (This makes me look unbelievably creepy and socially inept at times, by the way, as I’m often one who confronts old classmates with weird things like “Hey, remember that time you stood up for me in the 7th grade? I still remember that. It meant a lot. Thanks.” See? Creepy.) So, in writing my own eulogy, I’m not going to make it a big production of public gratitude like I’ve won an award or something - I’m dead, not taking home the SAG statuette for Best Supporting Actress.

I just want to be part of the party. I want to share memories and laugh about times I royally screwed things up and relate insane adventures I found myself a part of and talk frankly about my life, hopefully as a means to invite others to do the same. I’m not going to make it very long; I’m not about to make people sit through what I should’ve made a memoir, if I was really so intent on rambling about myself for long stretches. But I do want to have fun with it - I might make stuff up, just to see if anyone catches on and giggles - and I want it to make those who cared enough to congregate glad they did.

Actually, I’d really like the whole event - no matter the size - to be a celebration. I want one of my friends to sing Tenacious D’s “Dude, I Totally Miss You” and I want a New Orleans jazz band to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” at the end and I want everyone to wear anything but black and bring a covered dish for a potluck picnic afterward. (Ideally, I’d have enough money to leave behind to throw an actual bash with an ice cream bar and sushi and elephant rides and an 80’s cover band and bellydancers and hoopers and karaoke and a screening of “Amelie” and a bluegrass jam session, but I don’t want my family to have to deal with caterers and party prep, so I’ll just leave behind those four initial wishes and let them go from there.) I want it to be irreverent and I want people to talk about me realistically and I don’t want people to waste money sending me flowers (because I’m freaking dead. Hello? No olfactory senses in the afterlife.)

But, mostly, I just want to be able to share one last event with my loved ones and to be able to candidly reflect on my life and who I was as a person, since we’re already having a party all about me anyway. And, honestly, I’m not sure why more people don’t do that. I mean, I know it sounds a little conceited to want to be one of the ones that heaps praise on yourself but, if the topic of conversation is YOUR life, why shouldn’t you be allowed to give your $.02? And isn’t it a little conceited to want to sit back and let loved ones (and sometimes a preacher/rabbi they’ve never even met) stand in front of a crowd and tearfully glorify you as a flawless human being? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want people getting up and bringing up every single one of my faults and saying I was a horrible person (why would you go to a horrible person’s funeral anyway?) but I don’t want people who knew me painting me to be some perfect saint that I just wasn’t; that’s kind of gross, actually… and disrespectful as that sort of artificiality is something my whole life/self is opposed to. So, in writing my own eulogy, I’ll be able to set the tone of conversation and loosen people’s reservations (and make those who are obligated to be there and lean on the more reverent-and-conservative side reeeeally uncomfortable, which will also be entertaining.)

For me, writing my own eulogy isn’t about trying to take over the reins or clamor for power over a situation in which I ultimately have no control. It isn’t going to be a means of making a mockery of death or the traditions of memoriam, nor will it be about undermining or belittling the ways my family chooses to deal with my passing. I’m not doing it to rebel or buck tradition or make people uncomfortable.

Writing my eulogy is not only an attempt to act as a welcoming hostess/emcee for the gathering and to put at ease the wonderful people who were kind enough to come; it’s mostly a way for me to be a part of the conversations that will verbally sum up my time here on Earth and, frankly, I think it’s my responsibility to define my life, instead of leaving it up to someone else. Obviously, I can’t control how I’m remembered or what people think of me, but I owe it to myself (at least) to state and rejoice in my reality and identity, no matter how minuscule they may be in the grand scheme of things. Those are the only things I can ever truly call my own and I feel that the only person who can genuinely memorialize them is me. I can’t say what my life was or wasn’t to anyone else, but I don’t think it’s crossing any lines to proclaim what it was to me, for myself. In fact, I think it’s necessary.

Obviously, I’ll have to update this eulogy every so often, as it will have a bit of a shelf life and my perspective will hopefully continue to grow and shift as I age but, even then, I think summing up one’s own existence from time to time might be an incredibly healthy practice. Stepping into the role of “objective third party” and taking a look at my life as though the story is complete has been an amazing way to take personal inventory. If I’m disappointed with the storyline, I realize the need for change. If I’m happy with parts of the story, I’m reminded to take some time to express gratitude for all of it. I know it may sound sick and twisted but writing my own eulogy is a mental exercise I really benefit from, so long as I do it every few years and not obsessively. (Although I can’t imagine being obsessive enough about my life that I’d want to write a new one every week.) It gives me a chance to step back and look at the Big Picture and what’s really important versus what really isn’t going to matter in the end.

So, yeah, it sounds a little Emily Dickinson and it really freaked my husband out when I told him about it, but it’s something that seems a little common sense-y to me, now that I’ve had time to think about it. Why wouldn’t everyone want to be part of the greatest, most definitive celebration of their own lives, even if only through shared words and memories? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“I feel like there’s something wrong with you.” One of my dearest of friends started one of our quarterly conversations with this sentiment.

I was quick to assure her that I was fine, if not wonderful. Really. “No! We’re great! I just spent a month vacationing with friends and family and we’re getting ready for Burning Man and the Bear is at a really fun age and we’re good. Seriously, everything’s fine.”

“Okay, well, I hope you don’t get mad at me but I really think you need to hear this and I feel like you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed and I think being a good friend is telling someone the truth and I want to be a ‘good friend’ instead of just an acquaintance…”

Crap.

“Every time I see a picture of you or visit you, you’re wearing the same outfit and it’s starting to make me sad.”

It was true. I’ve always been one of those people who finds something she likes and just clings to it. Usually said article is extremely comfortable and somewhat flattering (although this wasn’t necessarily the case for the wood-and-leather clogs I wore every day in high school, but was certainly at least halfway true for the cargo pants I wore during that era…) This has gotten much worse in the last three years, however, as my life has become completely based on sitting around the house with a small child.

See, I have this great wrap skirt that I bought a few years ago at a hippie store called Loose Lucy’s. It’s lime green, flowy and doesn’t constrict when I’ve had a little too much to eat on vacation. I wore it through my pregnancy because of its expandability and will wear it around the house year-round because of its incredible comfort and versatility. Usually, I pair it with a light lavender t-shirt that’s fitted and comes down below my waist, giving me a fantastic hourglass shape while obscuring my little bit of loosened-by-pregnancy skin with a great big stencil-type graphic. This outfit is comfortable without being trashy, versatile and casual and cute and bright and easy. I love it. And, so, in my typical fashion, I wear it a lot.

But, unlike before, I can now get away with wearing clothes more than one day, so, I usually take advantage of that, safe in the knowledge that the only people who will see me are my husband, my daughter, and strangers in the grocery store. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous, so who cares if I throw it on two days in a row; as long as it doesn’t smell, it’s fine, right?

At this point, the ensemble is loaded with holes. The skirt’s ties have had to be reattached at least twice. There are bleach stains from when I spilled cleaning solution one day while scrubbing the tub. I know, it looks rough but, again, I figure nobody’s going to see me in it so who cares? It’s really become more of a functional uniform than what one would call an “outfit”. And, really, I’m fine with that.

But my friend - the dear, wonderful one - recognized this as a cry for help. A mother of three, she told me about how, when her children were born, she would throw on a pair of black overalls over clean underwear and a fresh shirt every day, believing - like me - that it didn’t matter what she looked like. She told me about how, slowly, this subconscious idea that she wasn’t important [or doing anything important] enough to care for on a daily basis started to become a belief and how it moved her into a rut that affected her whole life, causing her to stop caring about things that really mattered and falling short of her personal standards. And she told me she was worried about me because she saw me slipping into that based on my self-maintenance and didn’t want me to have the same mental experience she did.

I was floored. First of all, I see this friend about once every two years and talk to her about 4-5 times a year, usually after months of “I swear we’ll catch up soon!” We’re the types of friends who can go for ages without talking but can pick right back up where we left off and know that, if something awful is happening, the other one is there. (Pretty good for a friend I made while exchanging sarcastic commentary from the back row of a Shakespeare class. We were like Statler and Waldorf with boobs.) So the fact that she was perceptive enough to observe this habit of mine over photos I posted on Facebook and stop to consider that this may be a sign of something deeper says a lot about how much she cares. My heart hurt with gratitude.

Still, she couldn’t stop apologizing and justifying this sartorial intervention. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch, Liz. I just hope to god that if I started dressing in the same thing every day like a crazy person, you’d tell me. You’re too pretty to do this to yourself. I’m sorry.”

About a month ago, I had another one of my best friends call me and tell me we “needed to talk.” She was busy with other things all day so she couldn’t talk until 9 a.m. and I spent all day going nuts, trying to think of what it could possibly be that I’d done wrong. Later, on the phone, she gently explained to me that, for some reason, when we get out in public, I tend to get really judgmental and I cross the line with my jokes a lot. I also really hurt her feelings during these times.

I felt like shit. Not only did I have absolutely no idea that I was doing it at all but I had no idea where these sorts of things would even come from. This is one of those friends that I’m so nuts about that I constantly joke about how I sound like I have a fangirl crush on her and how I feel like she’s way out of my league as a friend. In my whole life, I’ve never had a friend who stuck with me and was so good to me as this one and I was sickened and heartbroken by the idea that some stupid, completely unconscious side comments would make her doubt her inherent awesomeness for even a second. (I know, I sound totally worship-y but she’s really, genuinely a great person. Ask anybody.) I was disgusted with myself on a really deep level.

The thing was, though, that this had apparently been going on for a really long time and, because she knew that I really do love her, she’d never said anything until now, figuring that I didn’t mean it (which is true, although that doesn’t make it acceptable.) And, instead of just saying, “You know what? You turn into a real bitch when we’re out in public and really suck as a friend. I’m done here.” she came to me and told me about it in a rational, straightforward tone and said, “I know you don’t mean it and I have faith that you’ll work to change it.”

I don’t mean to sound completely conceited or self-servicing but, frankly, that’s perhaps one of the greatest compliments a friend could give to another, I think. Valuing someone’s companionship enough to want to keep them around despite their shortcomings is one thing but believing in your friend’s ability to become a better person enough to point out a major character flaw? That shows an incredible amount of respect and faith in my rose-colored book. And, naturally, it makes me want to meet that set of standards for a friend who obviously cares a great deal about me. Those types are rare; I can’t afford to mess that up just from being a stubborn idiot.

I know looking at criticism as one of the greatest blessings in my life is a little weird and may make me sound like a glutton for punishment but I’m sure I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to keep friends around who are hypercritical and constantly tearing down my character or holding me hostage over my flaws, but having friends who believe that I deserve to be a better person than I am and gently demand that I try harder? I don’t think many people have that sort of luck.

So, yes, I’m throwing away the skirt and the shirt. Because someone loves me enough to tell me not to dress like a crazy hobo.

And that fills my heart with happiness.

This is a story of my 2.5 year old and how she elicited gasps of horror from a couple dozen mothers while I tried unsuccessfully to control my laughter.

DISCLAIMER: I realize I share entirely too many stories and photos about my child in a massive public forum. And, the WORST part about this is that I honestly hate people who do that, especially because so many of the “Listen to the hilarious thing my gifted/talented/world-saving child did!!!” stories are just so painfully mediocre that they make me want to punt a kitten. Additionally, I also realize that I’m completely biased and unoriginal because I think my kid is genuinely awesome. So, just so you know, I’m totally self-aware about the image I’m painting of myself as a suburban mother whose life revolves around a toddler. I get it.

So, there are free movies every Tues-Thurs morning at a massive multiplex up the road from us that we’ve been attending as we can. Because these are free, I don’t mind leaving 45 minutes in when Chloe is no longer interested in staring at a giant screen, even when I let her do running commentary.

Today’s feature film was the agonizingly formulaic “Arctic Tale”, which played out like every other here’s-the-story-of-a-modern-baby-polar-bear’s-life-and-how-it’s-going-to-die-because-you-”need”-to-buy-a-giant-car-YOUAHOLE!! Aaanyway, there was a scene in this movie in which a large polar bear sets its sights on a baby seal and begins to pursue it, thundering through the water as the music mounts and children all around us begin to cry out in their “IT’S GONNA EAT ME IN MY SLEEP!!!” terror. Just as the cacophony of kids screaming reaches it’s pinnacle, the “auntie” of said baby seal swoops in and thwarts the predatory bear’s mission, much to the relief of everyone in the audience…

…Except my angelic, blonde haired, blue eyed, pink dress-laden daughter, who slaps one hand to her forehead, reaches an upturned palm toward the screen and yells, “Ah, COME ON!!!”

The glowers of sheer disdain and pure judgment from my parenting peers couldn’t quell my hysterical laughter for the next five minutes until the Bear, now disillusioned with the film’s lack of baby-seal-mauling scenes, insisted we “leave to home.”

I have the best sidekick ever.

So, apparently I’ve become a total woman (I mean that in the derogatory way, by the way.)

In my last blog entry I talked about how I was going to bed with this sense of heartbreak and longing. Finally, after about 5 or 6 days of it and desperately trying to figure out what it could possibly be and/or came from, I mentioned it to my husband. Without hesitation, he said, “Well, the Bear’s been gone in the last week; maybe you miss her?”

I immediately burst into tears.

My mom and dad offered to take over Toddler Wrangling Duty while my husband and I made the move to our new house, which was an incredible blessing. It saved us so much time and energy and really allowed us to get things done efficiently. (Plus, we got a mini vacation over the weekend to attend a friend’s wedding! Hooray!) And it wasn’t what most people would call a huge deal but I got to sleep in until 10 a.m. almost every morning, listen to anything I wanted to while packing, abstain from changing anyone’s diaper, stay out as late as I wanted, etc. for a WHOLE TEN DAYS. It was kind of amazing - something I haven’t had since our honeymoon.

But when he mentioned her absence, I realized that that’s exactly what I was missing. She’s been back now for a couple days and, even though there’ve been some crying spells and a little neediness, it’s been wonderful to have my little sidekick back to rouse me at 6 a.m. and make me have a productive day where I get outside and I have to stay positive no matter how I’m feeling. It’s good for me.

So there you are. No depression here - just complete estrogenal fits. Awesome.

NOTE:There are a couple things I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t write about on this blog anymore, including depression/mental illness because I’m just over it and, even though I might be duking it out with my brain’s chemical makeup for forever, I don’t need to dwell on it and rehash it all the time anymore. I’ve done gobs of therapy and heaps of acceptance of the illness and have a grasp on how to tackle it and deal with my bouts and symptoms and I know that sitting around discussing it publicly just perpetuates the idea that it rules my life, which isn’t true at all.

However, because a few readers have expressed appreciation for it, I may continue to mention it from time to time. I’ve found that, even after over a decade of dealing with mental illness, there are so many facets and avenues I’m still uncovering and grappling with that I really haven’t considered as separate subcategories under what seems to be the endlessly massive umbrella of “Depression”. Somehow, it makes me feel better to have acknowledged these to myself and, truthfully, I always feel incredibly comforted when I get the occasional email from a reader saying, “Oh, thank God… Me too.”

ALSO NOTE: I apologize if the language in this is hard to follow. I think the text explains/excuses that a little.
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Up until recently, I’d always thought that there were only two types of depression in the technical, chronic mental-illness/chemical-imbalance category (versus the post-traumatic or “longterm blues” varieties.) There’s the chemically-induced stay-in-bed-all-day-unable-to-focus-on-anything-long-enough-to-make-any-physical-changes-to-your-situation-while-time-escapes-you type of depression that I deal with in giant waves about once annually. And then there’s the I-hate-myself-and-my-life-is-a-black-hole-of-nothingness-and-it-would-make-everyone’s-life-easier-if-I-wasn’t-here type of depression that I haven’t dealt with in a long time thanks to major life changes and years of therapy. (Naturally, I’ll have spells where I’m positive I’m wasting my life and I’m just a worthless person but, really, I think any introspective person is prone to those every now and then and they aren’t unhealthy if I can take something productive away from them.) And, of course, there are instances of depression that are combinations of both of these types, although perhaps involving different ratios of each. (For example, I started out with the chemical type in my preadolescent years, which developed into and later fed into the emotional type for a number of years until I got a handle on the latter and went back to just having the former, with tiny bouts of the latter every so often. Does that even make sense?)

ANYWAY, recently, I’ve been having a type of depression I can vaguely remember having when I was very very young and that might be more frustrating than any other: In the last few weeks (especially last few days) I’ve had this heartrending feeling that “something is wrong” and I can’t seem to shake it. It’s not a feeling of fear so much as a feeling of longing and heartache, where my chest seizes up and I feel like I’m on the brink of tears for absolutely no reason at all. It’s kept me awake until 2 or 3 a.m., just lying awake and shaking, with my mind uncontrollably reeling with memories and instances in hopes to figure out just what exactly it is that I’m so heartbroken over.

Even if I try to sit and meditate and repeat my mantras to myself and have fully realized that there’s no reason for this sadness and pain, it still persists. I begin to hunch over and stay quiet/secluded and I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles, even in 80-degree weather. All I want to do is stare blankly at the television or listen to “Surfer Rosa” on repeat. I fight the urge to self-medicate with mind-hushing wine or a couple Unisom. Sunlight physically hurts and social engagements are exhausting, if not overwhelming. I get angry at people around me for what seem like completely valid reasons at the time and then aren’t thirty minutes later. And I huuurt. It feels like someone is tightly wrapping a fine steel floss around my heart and it hurts to breathe, not unlike the symptoms of teenage heartbreak. Also like a post-breakup adolescent, I’m prone to crying in great, heaving, soul-jarring jags with no forewarning or buildup. (For the record, I’ve never even been this bad when I was um… hormonal.)

Again, usually when there are bouts of emotional depression, there’s something to focus on or some sort of trigger on which to blame the oily cloud of gloom I seem to drag around with me but, this time, there’s nothing, which I think may be somehow worse. At least when I’m all weepy and self-loathy about a personal shortcoming or an existential crisis or whatever may be momentarily plaguing me, I don’t have to waste energy trying to figure out why I’m upset; I can use all my resources to try to drag myself out of the funk and back to a level of regular functionality. My present situation is exhausting on a new level because, not only am I actively fending off the typical symptoms and habits of depression and working to move forward but I’m also unable to stop wondering “Where is this coming from? Is there something legitimately wrong going on in my subconscious? Do I need to go see a hypnotherapist? Maybe I can replay every painful event from my past - again - to see if any of those memories strike a chord with what I’m feeling. Good Lord, has my depression evolved again?”

I’m reminded of a weird joke one of my old pastors told that everyone laughed at but couldn’t pin down why exactly:

A little boy goes to his mother and says, “Mommy, it hurts when I do this.”
His mother responds, “Well, then, don’t do that.”
The little boy then tells her, “But that makes it feel better.”

Sometimes I honestly wish that I would just go ahead and lose my mind completely, so I wouldn’t have to struggle so much to wrangle in my thoughts/feelings. Like I’ve said [repeatedly], I’m really over all this and am ready to move onto something else that defines my immediate reality. One would think that, after so much time and treatment and medication, my mental health would get to a point where low-energy maintenance-only effort would suffice.

Don’t worry; I’m still keeping up hope that it can. This is just a bump-in-the-road of a different color and I’m taking it as a lesson to be wary of mental curveballs.

So, we’re on Day 2 of Moving which means that I’m running back and forth from our rental house to our new place, cleaning and flinging random odds-and-ends into boxes and trying to cram all that into our car but I’m finally starting to get excited.

I have plans. We’ve already painted a giant red accent wall around our stonework fireplace (much like the one at our old place) and we’re going to do the same old-Tuscan-style ragging effect around our kitchen and paint our bedroom that soothing light green color so we feel like we’re living in a tropical paradise. But I want to customize the crap out of the house. I want glass doorknobs everywhere (those things are EXPENSIVE at antiques shops) and we want to install a Dutch half-door on our front door (we might even hang a flower box off it) and we want to build an arbor out back and I want blooming-berry vines covering the brick parts of the garage and corners of the house and I want to turn the hill in our backyard into a terraced garden with tons and tons of veggies and fruits and, one day, I might even install aerialists’ ribbons from our huge vaulted ceiling and learn how to do all that like I’ve been wanting to for forever and… and… and…

We just have ideas, okay? Lots of them. And the freedom to do whatever we want to a house is both exciting and overwhelming. I mean, I can doodle Pearl Jam lyrics all over the walls if I want and no landlord is going to get mad at me! How cool is that?! (My husband may be livid but meh… that’s what primer’s for…)

But, for right now, we’re focusing on unpacking the three trillion boxes we have lying around and getting rid of the Thomas Kincade border in our master bathroom. Eughck.