Poem

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I wrote a poem today.  For some people that may not seem like too big of a deal, but I really don’t like poetry.  I’ve always found poems difficult to read unless they are at the level of a nursery rhyme.  Anything beyond that level is beyond my abilities.  I don’t understand the economy of words or hidden themes.  Maybe I am too literal.  (Or stupid.)  Ask anyone who knows me, if something can be said with three words, I’ll use 33.

But today was different.  It was gloomy, and it is Monday.  I didn’t sleep well last night, and I have a deadline looming over my head to complete the FY 2017 budget.  My house is covered in drywall dust with no end in sight to the constant stream of workers talking loudly and blasting music by 7:30 a.m.

I arrived at my office with a plan, but by lunchtime I had barely made a dent.  With constant interruptions, I was struggling not to lose my temper.  I ordered lunch and planned to eat at my desk while I continued working.  I sat back in my chair for a moment and closed my eyes.  My mind wandered from one thing to another, one person to another.  My thoughts are too often on those who are no longer a part of my life. I hate getting older.  There is too much loss.  I am tired of losing.  Too much change, and I’m tired of changing.

I closed out of the spreadsheets.  I wasn’t going to be productive in my present state of mind.  I took a bite of my sandwich and tried to shake away the gloom.  I remembered something I had done years ago that had often helped me during times like this.  I opened up a Word document and started writing.  So much was bottled up, and I needed to release the thoughts one by one in a sort of stream of consciousness exercise.

Before I knew it, something had begun to take shape.  I went back to the beginning, and I began to tweak the words.  I edited and arranged them.  I worked quickly.  It was as if the words were telling me where they needed to be placed.  The words began to make sense.  One thought followed another, and a deeper meaning began to speak to me from beneath what I had written.  It was a poem.

It wasn’t good, and it certainly isn’t worth sharing.  I’m certain it does not follow the “rules of poetry.”  I remember there were always a lot of poetry rules that didn’t make much sense to me.  I’ve never been very good with rules!

The process of writing my poem was therapeutic.  I arranged the words and thoughts.  By economizing, a theme began to emerge.  What had weighed me down was lifted just a little.  A small part of the gloom floated away..off into the distance.

 

Dormant Virus

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depression

My daughter, Emily, was sick with mononucleosis during her freshman year in high school.  Aside from accidents and injuries, this was the sickest I had ever seen any of my kids.  What started out as something that appeared to be a common cold, quickly escalated into a major illness.  She was covered with an angry red rash, her joints were visibly swollen, and her throat swelled to the point where she could not speak or eat solid food.  Being a “wait and see” mom didn’t work out very well in this instance.  As much reluctance as I had to take my kids to the doctor, I knew it couldn’t be avoided this time.  Unfortunately, beyond a definitive diagnosis, there wasn’t much that could be done medically for Emily other than to treat her symptoms.  Mono is a virus, and we just had to wait for it to run its course.  Em missed about three weeks of school, and it took her months to recover anything resembling the normal energy level of a 15-year-old girl.  The doctor told Emily that she would need to be careful.  The virus could remain with her in a dormant state, but could suddenly flare up if she allowed herself to become run down. Continue Reading »

R U OK?

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To Write Love On Her Arms

Yesterday was National Suicide Awareness Day.  A friend’s post on Facebook last night made me aware of the day, but more importantly it reminded me of the lies that depression can tell a person.

 “Life is not worth living.”

“I am not loved.”

“I am not good enough.” Continue Reading »

Here’s The Plan

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I read an interesting article today.  I just happened upon it, but something in the title caught my eye.  I don’t remember the exact wording, but it was something about determining when to keep pushing yourself and when there a need to allow yourself to rest.  Those of us who are driven individuals have most likely trained ourselves to keep pushing, don’t give up, be relentless in the pursuit of….whatever, you can fill in the blank on this one.  That’s certainly the story of my life.  I’m not a quitter.  Giving up is a foreign concept to me.  It doesn’t fit.  It doesn’t feel good, and it certainly doesn’t feel natural. Continue Reading »

My Roller Coaster Life

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T and I went to Chicago last weekend for an open house/parent’s day at Andrew’s school. We both took Friday off work. I was excited because we were taking the train for this trip, and it would be T’s first time riding the train. I had hoped that he would love the experience, but he wasn’t too impressed. I suppose I understand that. He didn’t like the lack of control he felt without a car. He did like not having to pay an arm and a leg for parking, though.

We had a great time. Our visit with Andrew was really, really wonderful. After checking into our super-fabulous room, we met Andrew at a Starbucks near the “L” station by our hotel. We talked. We hung out. We went for an early dinner at one of our favorite spots and gorged on BBQ sandwiches. Then we headed over to the Hancock Center to have a drink at the Signature Room on the 95th floor. The view was spectacular, made even more fantastic with the addition of the twinkling Christmas lights. We each had a martini. The bill was over $50 for three drinks! After we left the Hancock, we shopped a little and wandered our way over to another favorite spot where we feasted on crab cakes and filet sliders. The weather cooperated, and it was wonderfully warm for December. I did stop to buy some ear muffs, though, and T and Andrew laughed when they made me talk too loud and say, “what” each time they spoke to me.

The visit, demonstrations, and tour of Andrew’s school were impressive to say the least. While the changes in our son have been evident, we began to realize that his newfound focus and drive can be credited in part to an intense curriculum. The students are immersed in their discipline from day one. I can’t begin to express how very proud I am that Andrew has taken hold of his new life in Chicago and appears to be thriving and loving every minute. Our visit was over all too soon. They were golden moments that I am certain each of us will always cherish. It’s a rare gift to be able to have such happy, fun, content moments with our grown son. As we made our way back home, both T and I were quiet. We had taken a day and night to forget about everything that weighs down our lives. Now we were speeding right back to all of the things that made things not so perfect.

It didn’t take long once we got home to lose the relaxed, peaceful feeling we had in Chicago. All of our regular weekend chores were waiting for us. The girls had stayed home by themselves, and we had allowed Em to have a couple of girlfriends spend the night. They had a fantastic time, and I’m glad….but oh, what a mess was waiting for us. They had done A LOT of cooking. The made cupcakes, pancakes, bacon and eggs. While they had “cleaned up” the kitchen, it wasn’t exactly up to Mama Martha Stewart’s standards. You could have practically skated on the bacon grease that covered the hardwood floors in front on the stove.

When we got home, the girls were hungry. They wanted dinner. They wondered if I was going to go to the grocery store to do the weekly shopping. “There’s nothing good in the house!” Uh, no…not that evening! There was laundry to do, cat fur to vacuum, and I was feeling guilty knowing that I wouldn’t be able to fit in a visit to my mother that weekend.

While I enjoyed having a Friday without work, I should have been in the office. It’s budget approval time, and I had two really horrible meetings to prepare for on Monday. I should have been working on Friday, but being a Mom had to come first in this instance. It is such a balancing act at times. Panic was beginning to creep in while I was attempting to do a weekend’s worth of work in one day at home.

By Sunday evening, I was not feeling well. My batteries were running low. As I pulled into the driveway way after dark from my trip to the city with a load of Christmas gifts and groceries, T informed me that he had brought home a Christmas tree. Ugh! I put away the groceries and made dinner while he put the lights on the tree and Lola bounced around excitedly asking me when I was going to get the boxes of ornaments out of the basement. UGH! All I wanted to do was sit down, but what I really needed to do was a week’s worth of ironing. Decorating a Christmas tree had not factored into my plans for the evening. I could feel myself slipping. I was near tears. I didn’t want to be grouchy. I wanted to go back to that happy, relaxed feeling I had less than 24 hours earlier.

As I ironed, a friend sent me a text asking about getting together sometime with mutual friends to have a holiday drink. These are friends from “back in the day.” We are all past PTA presidents, and spent many mornings sipping coffee while our now-grown kids played. I loved the idea of getting together again to catch up on each other’s lives. We’re all working now. The kids (almost all of them) are all grown, and we don’t get together as often as we once did. My friend sent a text. “How about Sunday, December 11?” and I lost it.

December 11. I hate that day. It is the most horrible, despicable day. December 11 is the day my daughter Grace died. December 11 is the day my dad died. Two people I loved. It was on December 11 that I held my daughter in my arms as she looked into my eyes and took her last breath. On a December 11, I wandered through the pitch dark house, room to room, flicking on lights and calling my dad’s name. On December 11, I found my father dead on the living room floor. December 11 is full of horrible moments frozen in time.

I told my friend, “I’m sorry. I can’t on December 11.” I sent no more texts. I couldn’t. How could I explain that I am crazy on that day each year? How can I explain that I live in fear of that day? On December 11, I want to gather everyone I love all in the same room. I want to make them sit within my view. I want to hold a vigil over them. I want to lock the doors and stay in the house.

That one little text, with the words “December 11” threw me for a loop, and I still haven’t been able to recover. I sat in the bathroom and cried. I couldn’t help with the Christmas tree. I sat down later that evening and talked to T about it. He knew, or at least understood, my reaction. He’s seen it for years…The December 11th Syndrome. It’s real, and it sucks.

Things have been hazy since then. The cloud of depression has descended. I tried to explain that to T, too. The clogged-up, cottony feeling of depression. I told T about times in the past when I had wished for a semi to cross the center line while I was driving. I had wished for a patch of ice to spin my car around, out of control, and throw me off the road. I explained to T about the times when the depression became almost unbearable. I told him about times when I truly had not wanted to go on, but could not figure a way out of each day…the endless string of days filled with pain. I told him that sometimes, and now was one of those times, dealing with depression is an exhausting struggle. It felt better to talk and to say it all out loud.

Through the haze of this depression, I have been functioning as well as I possibly can. I’ve been working and taking care of my responsibilities. Life goes on. People are nice, or people are rude and mean. What I am going through is unnoticed and unimportant to most people around me. Most people don’t even know. I created the budgets. I attended the meetings. I answered questions and phone calls. Like an automaton, I continue to function day after day.

Strange moments have pushed themselves forward, to the front of the haze. Last night, I fell asleep on the couch and dreamed a happy dream. I had a puppy, a bloodhound (strange!) and I was happy. Something happened, though, and woke up. I was was awake for hours alone in the middle of the night. Near dawn, I fell asleep once again. This time my dream was full of fear and sadness. I don’t remember exactly what happened in the dream, but I was surrounded by grieving people. The room was full of despair. A door opened, and in walked a dear friend. I was up and wrapped in a comforting embrace. This morning, I sent my friend a thank you text for being such a reliable, comforting part of my real life. That steady friendship had made its way into my dreams just when I needed a friend.

And the strangeness continues.

This afternoon, I received a text from another friend. “Sorry I won’t be able to meet for dinner. Problems at work. Had to fly to CA.” I had no idea that I had even made dinner plans. So I rescheduled a dinner that I apparently would have missed.

Tonight, when all I wanted and needed was to completely relax and regenerate at the end of a bad day, I received a phone call from the hospital. My mom had fallen, and they thought her leg was broken. There was no need for me to come right away. Mom was being taken in for an x-rays, and I wouldn’t even be able to see her. They told me to wait for a call. I didn’t change my clothes. I didn’t throw on my comfy yoga pants and giant sweatshirt. I stayed in my office clothes in anticipation of a trip to the hospital. I waited. I did laundry. I vacuumed. I helped Lola with her homework. I made dinner. I carried my phone around waiting and waiting. Thankfully, my mom called at 8:30. Her leg isn’t broken. She can’t walk, though, and has been admitted to the hospital. No, there was no need come to the hospital tonight, but I need to go first thing in the morning. Arrangements will need to be made. The hospital will only keep her overnight. The assisted living facility won’t allow her back if she isn’t able to walk. It’s up to me, once again, to figure out where my mother will be going. Again. Again, and by myself. I have meetings scheduled for the morning. How am I supposed to fit this in, too?

After talking to my mother on the phone for a while, I felt reassured that she would be OK for the evening. I hung up and headed into the living room to let T know what was going on. There he sat on the couch with a 12-gauge shotgun on his lap. A man with a gun. It was shocking, and instinctively, I took a step back. It was my dad’s gun. We had brought it to our house, because it didn’t seem safe to leave guns in a vacant house. Of course, the gun wasn’t loaded. T doesn’t even like guns. He wants them out of the house, and was looking online for a fair selling price. Still…it’s a strange thing to walk into the living room and see your husband sitting there with a gun across his lap.

All evening, I thought of the Serenity Prayer. “God grant me the serenity…” Tonight I was praying, not for serenity, but a break from what seems like an endless series of crises. In closing this post, I ask you all to please be kind. None of us can know the internal struggles of those around us. A kind word, a smile, an act of friendship just might make someone’s day a little better at a time when they need it the most.

Damn That Wall

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It seems that I can only go along so well before I hit that wall again.  CRASH!

Think positive.  Think positive.  Yeah…..screw it!  I get so tired of looking at the bright side, reminding myself of the good.  I am tired of working so hard, trying so hard just to NOT HURT.  Life should not be this difficult.  Life is not fair.  Nope.

I could feel the wall begin creeping up on me a last night.  I was tired.  Once I got home from work, everyone seemed to need a little piece of me.  Lola had a couple of neighbor friends in the house.  “Look, Mom.  Look, Mom.  Look, Mom.”  I listened patiently.  I looked.  I looked again….and again.

I escaped upstairs to change clothes, and Em came in to talk.  It was more of the endless stream-of-consciousness about how much she misses her boyfriend who is away at school, and she hasn’t seen since last Saturday.  My God, the drama!  Oh, yeah, could I take her shopping this weekend?  She has nothing to wear.

I grabbed my laptop, and snuck down to the living room.  I needed a few moments of mindless activity, but that was not to be.  T came in.  “What are you doing?  You’re going to sit there and fall asleep.  What are you thinking about dinner?”  Bleh…  Really, I didn’t give a shit about dinner, but I got up and headed into the kitchen.  To be fair, he always helps with dinner preparations, but on his terms.  Delaying dinner to catch a few moments of relaxation is not on his terms.

While dinner was cooking, I once again headed to the couch thinking that I could sit quietly for a moment.  I had just gotten comfortable again on the couch, when Lola came in from playing with her friends.  “Mom, can I spend the night with ***** on Friday night?”  I explained to her that I didn’t even know this person or her parents.  No, I couldn’t allow her to spend the night at their home.  Maybe they could just get together and play for a while instead.   For probably the 100th time, I explained to her that in order for her to spend the night at someone’s house, the invitation had to come from the parent, not the child.  Oh, she had a note!  I braced myself.  I knew what would come next.  Lola grabbed her bookbag and rummaged around until she found it.  Yep, just as I had suspected.  It was a note written in red crayon.  The penmanship was lovely, but I don’t think it was written by this girl’s mother.  🙂  In any event, I would be reluctant to send my child to a home where the mother uses a red crayon to write notes.  (Not that I couldn’t see myself doing the same thing!)  I informed her that I as sorry, but the answer was still NO.  Hmmmmph, arms crossed, she huffed away.

Lola was angry with me.  Em was sequestered in her room on an endless phone call to her beloved.  T was on the computer.

I sat there and wondered, “Now what?”  I had been home for a couple of hours, and the entire time I had felt like a rag doll being yanked around from one place to another.   Picture a group of dogs all latched on and shaking their heads from side to side trying to get a better grip.  Eventually, the dogs all tire of the game, drop the doll, and forget all about the game.  That’s what I felt like last night.  Well, not just last night.  I feel that way much of the time.

The girls went to bed.  T moved from the computer to the green chair in the living room.  I wandered around the house.  I puttered.  I did laundry, folded laundry, put away laundry.  It was quiet, too quiet.  The wall was approaching closer and closer.

I tried to talk to T, but could not seem to get beyond one-word responses.  Facebook.  I looked at what everyone was doing.  I played Sims online.  Even my little Sim chick is boring.

Eventually T fell asleep in his chair, and I wandered upstairs alone to read a book.  Instead of reading, I laid their on my bed looking out the window.  I couldn’t see much, just the shadows of the trees on the lawn.  A cool breeze was coming in through the screen.  I laid there and I thought of what was behind me.  I tried to imagine what lies ahead, but all I could see was more of the same.  Pacing in a cage is what it often feels like, but I know that’s my own perception and my own fault for feeling this way.

I recognize what is happening.  I am losing a bit of the positive progress I had been making.  A setback, that’s all.  I will recover from it…stronger than ever.  I recognize it, I acknowledge it, but still….it pisses me off.  Why is this all so difficult?

The wall was back full force this morning.  I did not sleep well.  My dreams were not kind.  My dreams were haunting and exhausting.   For silly reasons, I cried during my drive to work.  I looked across the fields and most of them are now bare, bleak, and empty.  The harvest is in.  Another season has passed.  Another year.  Another winter is waiting.