…And Just Like That
Three Faces of Depression…
I // There is a yarn of "I need a break" and "I'm tired." comments, softly suggested until they unfurl into exclamations. This time has helped me reflect. I am pondering the question, "In what areas of my life am I seeking and waiting for permission to love myself?"
II // The start of A depressive episode, for me, is a slow pour—an incremental undrying of tear ducts. My (w)hole body wants to cry, but I can't. Not yet. I understand I need a release, an airing out of the storehouse, but something stops me. It feels as if I'm harboring my breath and tears at bay. Sometimes, my mind is a house with too many rooms, and I eat too many things, doom scroll, and hyper-fixate on random topics. (YouTube basketball leagues were the latest analysis)
III // Then, if depression grows into its fangs, I become most withdrawn from life; the world is muffled, black and white. I see awful, phallic stories of me leaping off a coming bridge or tossing this body into oncoming traffic. In between that, I fall into nothingness in crowded rooms; food and joy taste bland, too bland to consume, and I feel nothing for everything. Muscle memory grips itself around rituals: drop the kids off at school, ensure they're bathed (even if you aren't), feed them, and let them talk at you. (It's essential), play piano and sing songs (you get paid to rouse congregations). Hold your breath. Keep holding it. It's not time...not yet. Hold it together till' you feel your glass house running over, and then you can breathe and cry.
Why? Because ain't nobody coming to save me, ain't nobody coming to save my family, and all advice, even the most fantastic and impractical, looks fair on paper, in text, or ambiguous declarations of support.
Everyone is…
With all my heart…Té
