Showing posts with label depression grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression grief. Show all posts

Monday, August 10, 2020

A Cold, Wet, Dark Street

Cold, wet, and dark, well, except for the security light above my head. As I pulled my collar up around my neck, I realized I should have brought a heavier jacket.

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the dark, rattling the door behind me, and the rain increased. A sudden gust pushed the drops horizontal, slapping me in the face, and I swiped at it with the back of my hand.  

The street beyond the wide sidewalk was void of traffic and I watched debris rush along the gutter, carried on swift currents, toward the drain somewhere in the dark. The waiting vortex would suck it down, into a cold spiral to a subterranean pool and from there to wherever useless things go. I suppose the ocean eventually. Someplace exotic? A fish's belly? A subduction zone, crushed and roiled into a mix of molten rock? 

Thunder exploded with a blinding flash that blew out the sensor on the light and cast me in to utter darkness. The rain became a deluge. I stepped back toward the doorway, trying to shelter against the building. The light struggled back to life after a few moments. Once restored, the glaring light made it nearly impossible to see beyond its circle. I felt trapped by it, like some bug in a glass. 

Yeah, that's what it felt like. Someone had dropped me in a glass and put a light over it. Where it was warm and dry and light reigned. They were probably sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee, feet on the desk, watching me in my damp, dark test tube. 

I sighed. Too much imagination. 

We measure our life by our success, and if we do not perceive any, we deem ourselves a failure. But perception can be flawed. Only we won't realize that until, well, until we're standing in a cold rain on a dark street, drowning. 

I'd sort of considered myself a failure at many things, but not the things that mattered. A job well done, a happy family. They were marks of success, right? I didn't have any plaques. Just a lot of photos that showed smiling success. But photos are an imperfect view of success. They're what you see at the moment. And sometimes the smiles aren't real.

The wedding photos, filled with lots of laughing, smiling people, were a prime example. Everyone there had a secret pain. A failure. Or would have before the day was out, before the week was out, before the month... you get it. 

Why is disappointment a requirement to everything? Do we really expect so much of ourselves that even a slight bump of it totally derails us? Or is it that we expect so much from our successes, more than they can deliver? And when they don't, we blame ourselves.

A streak of lightening flashed across the sky, turning the street an inky black moments later. I closed my eyes. It felt safer than that dark street. I blew out a deep sigh and opened them. The light over my head flashed and came back on. I wonder why closing my eyes felt safer. 

I sighed. Too much imagination. 

Stepping away from the wall, I stuck my collapsed umbrella out and popped up the canopy and raised the cover of bright cherry blossoms over my head, cutting off the downpour. The street seemed to lighten as the umbrella dimmed the glare from the security light. I turned and started my walk back to the real world at the end of the street. I could see the lights, cars dashing back and forth, people crossing the end of the street, not turning down this long dark one. The sounds of horns were faint but grew louder as I approached the intersection. 

Didn't seem to matter much now if I was a success or failure. I was the only one who knew the truth. Others might surmise but smiles hide many things. If you looked happy, people believed you were. If you looked successful, people believed you were. You had to walk down cold, wet, dark streets to know for sure. Most people never make that trip. They don't want to know. I was a rebel, I suppose. My laughter echoed against the buildings, a laughing audience mocking me. Well, them's the breaks. 

I stepped from the dark alley, onto the brighly lit sidewalk of the boulevard, the lights reflecting around me from the rain like a pagent catwalk, as if someone wanted to make me feel special. Maybe I was. I smiled.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Vanished Into the Dark



Tomorrow will be the 29th. Seven years ago tomorrow my whole world turned upside down. Every day I stare at this tableau there is a stab of pain and a flood of memories.

This morning I was wondering this morning how I was going to address tomorrow. Since 2009 I can't approach January 29 as if it were any other day. I remember the first few years the number 29 drove me crazy. Every time the number came up in any context I experienced anxiety.  That faded eventually but the day is still a difficult day to approach.

In fact, beginning January 29, 2009, every major holiday and special occasion has been painful. Starting in August, with Jerry's birthday, until February there are six days that have nearly wrecked me: his birthday on August 6th, Thanksgiving, Christmas, our wedding anniversary on January 11th, his death on the 29th, and Valentine's Day. For nearly half the year, since 2009, I've clinched my teeth, straightened my spine, and struggled not to think about Jerry not being here. I rarely succeeded in being stoic. Each month I'd have at least one day where I just fell apart.

This year, I totally forgot Jerry's birthday. I was stunned and upset with myself the day after when I realized it. Sarah and I were sick. I always take flowers but I forgot him. In November, I was away from home for the holiday and things were very busy and filled with people I love so I didn't brood over Thanksgivings Past. Christmas the house was bulging for three weeks. More people I love, my family and some friends, filled the house up and there was no time to really brood over anything but the lack of time alone, which they gave me at intervals. It is probably the first time since he died that I didn't feel bereft or make myself sick crying. With so much coming and going, there were few opportunities to wallow in self-pity. You know there's folks who think that way after 7 years. There were people who thought that way after the first 6 months.

But tomorrow is the 29th. Today there is a pressure in my chest and a sadness hangs over me. I'm not distraught. I'm not prostrate. I don't feel like crying. There is this heaviness in my gut and I feel as if I have lost something, and I need to get up and look for it. Maybe tomorrow I'll find it?

I should go to the cemetery. I should take flowers. I should tell him I haven't really forgotten, that every day, at some point, I see him, hear him, and feel him. Sometimes only for a moment, sometimes for hours. I should remind him that when I see his picture, sitting there on that shelf, a flood of memories rushes over me. They're funny, happy, silly, angry, and sad all at once.

And sometimes, I get angry because he's not here. He left me with an upside down world and no one to help me clean up the mess. I have to figure out everything myself. I have to take care of every problem alone. If I get afraid, there is no one to hold my hand or wrap me in strong arms. No one to tell me everything is going to be fine. No one to fix the car, the toilet leak, the floor, or take out the trash.

Tomorrow is the 29th. Perhaps, the wheels will begin to turn again and the world will right itself. No. No, it won't. Because it is the 29th and on that day, I died, too. I won't find the things I've lost. Who I am now is not who I was on January 29, 2009. Everything I was and was supposed to be was gone in a moment. I watched it vanish into the dark. Maybe that is why it still feels like I've lost something. I didn't lose Jerry. I lost me.

I love you, Jerry Maddox. I'll always love you.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Two Mondays a Week

I feel like I'm chasing my tail. If I had a tail. Today is, of course, Tuesday... after Labor Day which, in my view, makes this Monday. It has been Monday all day long. 

My day started off at a run. I'm going on vacation on the 16th and will be out of my office for a week. So, that means I have to really get ahead in my caseload. Since I am already behind by about two weeks, this is not good. I have really hit it hard today, doing about 12 files of data entry. This is actually excellent. Generally, I can get 10 at the most done in a day. So, two more is a good thing. But not enough. I have nearly 20 more.

This is no way to start a week. The last week was fairly rotten in the first place. I was sick and family crises fell like hailstones. To start another week, a new month in fact, even worse is just frustrating. 

It feels as if my life is imploding. That's different from an explosion. It means to collapse inward from external pressures or to break down or fall apart from within. I can't find a much better description. I don't want to go into it here on this blog at this point. Someone pointed out that I'd once again have to go  through a form of grief. I don't want to do that anymore. Ever. I am so stressed at the moment that I can feel it in my chest. No, not actually pain. Just that heaviness you get when things are at their worst and you know you can't fix it. Fear sort of just gnaws at you bit by bit. You get tired.

I am tired. Of a life that seems filled with every dream and hope that I ever held shattered at my feet and then I am forced to walk across the razor sharp shards to some nebulous end. There is not pot of gold. There's not even a rainbow.  There will be those who say I overreact. Maybe I do. You need to walk very quietly from the room. Don't come back until I call you. Don't hold your breath. 

Monday I went to the Urgent care for a bug bite. Silly old thing that I am, I had a mosquito bite on my thumb but then there was some other bite on my leg, above my ankle. It happened in the car. Mike and I were taking Sarah home around five. She'd been to the Labor Day picnic with us but I was tired. I suppose the bug got in when I did. I got stressed because the mosquitoes here are infested with West Nile virus. I'm been so careful going out and taking Sarah out. But I only went from inside the house to inside the car. I shouldn't have to shower in Off. But I got bit.

The one on my thumb looked like a normal mosquito bite. The one on my leg didn't. It didn't get the red raised mound of a normal mosquito bite. It got very red and made a rectangular mark that grew to about the size of the end of my pinky from the join to the tip. It stung, not as bad as a bee sting but sort of like it feels when you stick a hot match to your skin. I had a terrible meltdown. There was no one to really care about it. No one to hold my hand, talk me down to a sane frame of mind. I called a couple of people. They have lives of their own. They moved on. 

Of course no one was as concerned as I. I don't know what I expected. I was terrified. Yeah, I know I nuts. You're late. The mark just got redder and redder and seem to spread over the course two hours. I finally decided to go to the urgent care. I called and ask David to go with me. Jerry would have gone with me if he'd been here. Mike would have gone if I'd called him but he doesn't handle my stress well anymore. Who am I kidding... I don't handle it well anymore. He's just not equipped for it, although he tries valiantly. More so than anyone else. 

Anyway, Dave went with me. I melted down in the car. He actually handled it pretty well. I really  needed Jerry to be there. Really, really, really. I got Dave to drive. I sat in the waiting room two hours and the mark faded away. Once they called me back I felt stupid but I have to say they didn't treat me that way. The were very kind and understanding and the doctor, when I saw him told me he was going to take notes on what had happened and if something changed I was to call. He said there were things they could tell me on the phone to do so I wouldn't have to come back in. I dropped David home and came home alone. 

It is an eternal irony that I don't want to live with people but I do not want to be alone. I am not able to resolve the paradox. 




Sunday, March 18, 2012

Life from the Bottom

Sometimes it is necessary to make changes that are not easy but necessary. We fill our lives with things that weigh us down and slow us, usually with the best intentions. All other decisions seem hinged on these weightier items that have little merit. I've found myself there this week.

Friday I posted a blog on the Writer's Asylum blog that I was effectively dissolving the group. You can read it if you like. One member didn't receive it well but it isn't something I'm overly concerned about. I understand why she was upset but the reason for the group to exist simply disappeared. It no longer functioned. They can certainly keep meeting to chat if they like. But it isn't a writing group anymore.

I was relieved. Isn't that odd? Maybe not. It no longer provided me with an incentive to write. I've known that for several months. But I kept hoping the energy would return and we'd get back on track. When it didn't happen, I knew it was time to make a change. So, no more Writer's Asylum. 

I don't know if I'll look for another group or not. I don't think so. I am going to keep trying to work on my story. I may use the now free Thursday nights just for writing time. For now, several FB/NaNo friends are in my WRoE group. I'm not sure where that's going. We're meeting online and it's nice to talk with someone about writing but ultimately, I need to be writing and not just talking. That is what the WRoE is about, writing. 

The truth is that I am in an odd place where the things I have been interested in no longer appeal to me. I thought that maybe I need to move myself in a new direction. But change isn't easy for me. I don't like change. It makes me uncomfortable and stressed. Not all change is bad but it doesn't seem to matter where I'm concerned. I want things to stay as they were before. It is impossible. The nature of life is change. It comes whether you're prepared or not. I'm not. It's here. 

I went with my friend Carolyn to the Home Show yesterday and we went to lunch afterward. I saw lots of beautiful things for the house but unless I win a million they are just not going to appear. It was  a nice day but my hip simply gave me a horrible time as the day progressed. The concrete floors in the stadium are just bad on my back and legs. Once I got home I was so tired.

Today, Sunday, was a really terrible day. I felt awful when I got up, aching and hurting everywhere and I simply was exhausted. I watched some music videos and then had this terrible relapse and I cried for hours. I went back to bed at 3 p.m. and slept until nearly 6 p.m. I've been sitting in a chair all day. And I'm still tired. I'm headed for bed in just a few minutes.

I don't like living this way. It is not living. It is existing. There is not one day I can point to in the last three years that I was happy or content with my life. I can't single a day out as special or important. They are a blur that I can't actually remember much about unless I read the blogs. I have found that just sitting here and looking at stuff on the computer is acceptable and time passes without notice for the most part without any emotion interfering. It is an entertaining narcotic. I work hard. I come home and sit down and before I realize it it is bedtime. And another day arrives unnoticed. Time moves past without making any impact other than a sense of loss.

I still don't want to go out or see anyone much. Every trip is forced and tiring. I don't even want to leave the room I'm camped in at times. I could actually move the necessary items into one room and never go into the rest of the house unless I needed something. 

No one comes here very often but Mike. Even Sarah doesn't come over much anymore. But I've learned to adapt to the isolation relatively well. I no longer look for anyone to come. I no longer extend invitations and I find something to direct my attention to so I don't think about it. 

I'm thinking about disconnecting my land line all together. I have no real need for it. The only calls I get are from my children to ask for something. I have my cell. My aunt usually calls that. And that's all the calls that come in. If I could live on Jerry's pension, I'd quit my job tomorrow and never leave this house again. I wouldn't care. 

I had this realization today that if something happened to me here in the house and no one wanted something from me, I would not be found for days or until someone at work stared looking for me if it was a work day. That wouldn't happen until nearly noon and then they would just call the house. The boss might ask Carolyn and she'd try and get my kids but I doubt she has anyone's number anymore, they change them so often. If I was in the yard, no one would notice as there are no people ever around here.

I thought I should go and sit on the porch today. It was warm out and sunny and it seemed like a good idea. It required something from me I didn't have to give. So I stayed here, in front of the computer until I went to back to bed. 

For a moment today I considered calling and getting the t.v. cable reconnected but I know that if...when I do that, I really won't leave the house anymore. There won't be a need. I looked for possible vacation packages, even just a weekend away. I didn't do anything because I think I'm probably not  physically able to do the kind of things I'd enjoy. I see no sense on paying for a hotel room to just sit and watch t.v. in because I can't walk or I'm too tired. I even checked out a writer's workshop in Mobile, my hometown. I had no idea where to start and after a few minutes it was simply not of interest.

So I sat here and did nothing. I didn't read except stuff I ran across. I watched videos and t.v. shows. Oh and slept nearly 3 hrs. Now I'm going back to bed. I have to work tomorrow.


Sunday, January 29, 2012

In the Walls


In Memory - January 29, 2009.

I could leave that as my only post today and it would be adequate. I thought, somehow, that because the last few months have been tolerable that today would be very easy. Even up until yesterday I thought, “This year I won't notice so much. I won't feel so bad.”

I had a dream this morning. I was asleep in the house and in the dream I woke up and began to walk through the house. Something was wrong with a spot high up on my bedroom wall that backs on the laundry room. It was a “hot spot”. In my dream I thought, 'We moved the fuse box so that can't be causing this.' The area was soft and sticky and very warm. In the real world, the fuse box is on the opposite wall of the laundry room where it has always been.

I left the room, calling Jerry as I went. I went to the living room and the front door, both storm door and entry door were standing open. I stared, dumbfounded. What on earth was he doing that he'd leave me asleep in the house with the doors open like that? I went to the kitchen and checked the laundry room and found that the hot water heater was removed. Again, I stared. I began to work on the floor that needs replacing.

Then, I stopped. Where was Jerry? I went back to the living room and looked out the window and saw my sister's car. I went out just as she was coming in. A refrigerator was lying on the ground near the house and near the curb between my drive and the next cabinets and other junk lay on the ground. My sister said, “The people next door are moving out.”

I said, “No, she's in a nursing home and they're cleaning the place out.” This is true, by the way, she is but there's been no work there for a year at least. And no junk anywhere around.

I said, “I can't figure out where Jerry is.”

We went into the house and I went into the bathroom. Bright blue paint was all over the tiles and the shower curtain was missing. It wasn't being painted. It looked as if someone had  been painting and residue settled as they tried to clean up but it was all over the place. I rubbed a spot on the tile and it seemed to rub off easily. There was a time I'd have blown a gasket to find such things. Now I just though, “It'll come off.” Oddly, it was the old white tile we used to have in there.

I stepped into the hall. Incidentally, my bathroom was not in the right place. But directly across was a door to another room where this is a closet in the real world.  I saw a white shower curtain, spattered with blue paint hanging from what appeared to be a shower rod. I saw Jerry behind it in an odd position. He was wearing his glasses and that registered as odd to me. He'd had contacts for several years before he died. His hair was also thick and dark. It had begun to thin when he died. He'd been coloring it for years. He was younger and slim.

He appeared to be sitting on top of the window, his legs through the wall and he was hanging backwards, his hands behind his head as if he was on a lounge chair relaxing. It was such an odd, frightening position and my heart pounded. I yelled his name and ran into the room. In  my mind I thought he was dead but I asked what he was doing. He didn't answer me. He just looked at me and made no attempt to get down.

I told him I'd help him get down. I began to check the wall to see how to get him down and I saw that the wall was literally “finished” around him. There was no “hole” that he'd gotten stuck in. He was just a part of the wall. His hips were in the wall, over the window and the wall smoothly finished all around him.

In my head I was thinking I need to call 911 and get help. I have to get him out of there. And then I woke up into the real world feeling as if my chest were being crushed. I sat up and looked around.

And I said, “God, that wasn't fair. That was cruel. It was mean.”