WORDS

The day Kevin’s dad died, I felt a crow follow me all around.

It carried a message I didn’t want to hear.

I kept moving, and so did the crow,

forward and back, this way and that.

Today I am running, but not away from the crows.

The crows are stirring, but not behind me.

They're, above, alight, or flying,

perching or peering, but never following,

and they don’t look eerie, they look aesthetic.

Four of them on a wire, like companions, and

they're a sight to see adjacent the bustling of fall leaves,

and in between the almost bare branches.

Their black and rotund bellies, against a vibrant blue sky.

Their acuminous beaks against the yellow of dying leaves reminds me that...

Crows show up when people die, and it’s frightening,

and then they show up when the leaves die, and it’s beautiful.

We race to stay ahead of it,

The world around us.

We turn, we spin,

 wrapping an unyielding grip on this muted melody of life.

When, the only way to make sense of the swishing and the splashing....

Oak, walnut, ash, hickory, elm.

The absolute loyalty of a tree, 

a vast oasis, the cooling shade.

These grateful sensations through rainfall, drought, and prevailing winter winds.

It’s imaginative and convincing.  

Komorebi, shimmering heat, and my secrets in the stones.

I am awestruck, and the leaves are whispery and there's a fluidity in the branches, and in my body, and in my thoughts.

An inevitable softening, and forgiveness,

The crisp air hanging outside, in this wilderness.

This is the deep playfulness of life.

I believe in the progeny found in the yellow and the brown and the red of the maple or,

the gentle and sweeping canopy of the willow.

I re-read my last post and I think it’s important to write a new one.  A follow-up that reminds me that those times pass.  They feel like they won't when you’re in them, but I’m here, on the other side, and those thoughts are gone.

One morning, in that dark time of depression, I stirred in that “in between” state.  I wasn't awake but I also wasn’t dreaming. The feeling of reality hadn’t quite hit me just yet.  My eyes were still closed, I felt the warmth of Kevin’s arm against mine and I heard it: Look at everything I have, it is right here in my hands.

I opened my eyes, to this bright bedroom, and this man next to me, and I felt the warm body of the sweetest little cat at my feet.  Every other morning I had woken up in this way.  Every other morning in those months, I knew those things were around me, and I knew I was grateful for them but I didn’t feel happy.  Not because I didn’t know their value, but because some chemicals in my brain were not firing correctly and it made all of these vibrant, wonderful things very dull to me. 

But not on that morning.

I don’t know why that morning it was different.  I don't know why that sentence came into my mind, but it helped.  It helped immensely,  and in the days following that, when I held things I loved (people or items), when I shared in a moment of value, or when I heard or saw things that struck me in a beautiful way, I repeated that to myself: Look at everything I have, it is right here in my hands.  I couldn’t see it clearly before then. There was just SO MUCH SHIT. Material and emotional.

In the months since then, I have made a large shift and it has been very deliberate. I have started to say no and I have also started to say yes.  I have said no to the over scheduling and the constant go, go, go that I’ve always succumbed to.  I have said no to people, whom I love, but just cannot please right now.  I have said yes to healthy emotional boundaries.  I have said yes to time off.  I have said yes to myself and no to the guilt of pursuing the things that I enjoy just for me.This has made a difference, because it has cleared my environment.  It has put into focus what it is that I want my life to consist of.  Life feels less overwhelming now.

I am also trying to be more open.  To connect. This is hard for me. I have many friends, and I share in certain things with a lot of people, but ME, the REAL, me.  That woman is often hidden. Those who are very close to me (about 3 people), know that while I present myself as an outgoing, energetic extrovert, I am in reality, an easily overstimulated, and very private introvert. 

Why am I private in this way? I don’t know. I now understand my feeling of isolation is partially my own doing.   It is partly innate and partly self protection.  Not all whom I’ve opened up to in this way have stayed in my life the way that they promised they would.  This was painful for me.  When I connect with a person and find a friendship of depth, I honor it, because it’s rare.  So, when I say I am here, I am, completely.  and when I learn that others say these things to me but don’t live them, it hurts me at my core, because I believed them. 

I realize now the foolishness in chasing things that have already run too far past me, without ever looking back. I realize that in chasing these things, I was running from everything that I’ve had all along. The pain of that has also been a gift. It makes me most aware of what and whom is consistent in my life.  Those things and people that show up, even when I don’t deserve it or can’t see it. I’m not alone.  I’ve never been alone, and in sharing more openly who I am, I am realizing that the people around me, love me just the same.  They get it. They understand, and they show up.

“The other day I was running and after a finished, I picked a flower.  When I was done with it, I threw it in the lake and I watched as it floated there aimlessly.  Then I realized, what had been done to the flower was being done to me too.  I am detached, limp, void of a stem.  Maybe that’s freeing at first....until you drown.”

Picture of a melting snowman ripped from a magazine: “I am like this stupid snowman, and everything I already am will ultimately consume me.”

“Here’s a black flower, because somehow, small ones are still growing inside of me.”

“Depression is: keeping your mouth closed so black tar doesn’t spill out.  But then it will accumulate and come seeping out from your eyes.”

These are recent excerpts from a journal.  Tangible evidence of an impending doom that was lingering above my head for over a month.  I am now coming out on the other side. Depression is hard when you have nothing to be depressed about it.  So, cue the rain cloud filled with guilt and shame too.

I remembered a conversation I had with my dad a while back, where he shared that he had been feeling depressed.  I asked him what he did to combat the feeling, and he told me it was important that his time be filled with people and things that he really enjoyed.  Stepping away from all of the minutia, and directing his attention to hobbies and interests.  So, I did this.  I made a list of hobbies/interests/things that make me feel good and I pursued them.  This was hard.  The reason it was so difficult is because I was experiencing a level of fatigue I had never experienced before.  My usual drive to engage in these things was laying dormant and I had to almost force myself to get out and pursue them.  I also battled an intense frustration with my mind and body when I felt they couldn’t “keep up” with what I wanted them to do, in the time that I wanted them to do it.

I finally shared with my husband that I thought I was depressed.  He is not a “sit and talk about life” kind of guy and this topic seemed to feel a little too abstract for him.  “It will go away” he said.  And just like that,  I felt even more alone.  Because “what do I do in the meantime while it’s still here?” I thought.

I later told a friend about my depression. I told her that I felt this “doom” and restlessness about the future and all of my responsibilities and tired at the thought of how long life lasts and all that has to be done in between that time.  She tried comforting me and said: “you have a really good life” and again, I was reminded that I had no reason to feel this way, she was right, my life IS GOOD. “so why don’t I FEEL good, I’m selfish.” I thought.

I learned in these moments the solitude of my own existence.  How I can be surrounded by so many people and still feel so alone.  So solitary, that it actually hurts. No one was getting it.  I also learned that if you’re a successful woman, with a job you love, a kind and loving husband, a comfortable home, a car to drive, people who love and support you...you have absolutely NO reason in the world to ever feel depressed.  So, you should hate yourself even more for being so fucking ungrateful too. 

I decided I wouldn't tell anyone else about it and I begged my husband not to ever, ever, ever tell my parents.  They would stay up at night worried about me if they ever knew and I couldn’t handle worrying them in that way. That would just be another load for my tired shoulders to carry, and I couldn't. 

I decided to go with the “fake it till you make it” mentality and thought of all of my “usual” behaviors.  I came up with a way to mimic them the best that I could, so as not to bring attention to myself or “alert” people that something was wrong.  This was so fucking exhausting.  My already depleted energy sources were on overload with my trying to smile and be goofy and engage in life the way I normally would.  Every fiber of my being just wanted to retreat, alone, in quiet.  I honestly thought that by doing this, I would somehow trick my mind into feeling “normal” again.  I wouldn’t be “feeding into” the depression.  Instead what I was doing was completely avoiding it and not dealing with it at all.

I later went on a vacation with friends, slept no more than 4 hours per night and this really took it’s toll on me mentally.  I was trying harder than I had ever tried to be present, to enjoy this opportunity that so many are not afforded and there were moments where I still caught myself wishing I was alone instead of surrounded by these people.  These people who really do love me. It’s the oddest thing.  You feel more alone than you’ve ever felt, and somehow in your mind, you think being more alone is going to make you feel better.  I wanted to be falling in love with these moments and I really punished myself internally for not being able to.

This feeling of isolation was later compounded when another group of my friends all went out a few times without me.  This hurt me, deeply.  In my clouded, depressed mind, I thought of all of the reasons why people may not want to be around me.  I made a conscious decision to be proactive and be honest about my feelings, hiding was becoming too tiresome.  I didn’t share that I was depressed but I let them know that I felt left out.  Two of the three acknowledged my feelings, and explained that was never the intention.  The third made sure to tell me that I was childish, and didn't need a PSA for everything the group was doing.  This stung and I amicably parted ways with that friendship.  I am setting clear boundaries in my life now.  I can only include those in my life who are kind and have no agenda. (”avoid loud and aggressive persons, for they are vexations to the spirit.”).  Inevitably this has put a halt in the usual “flow” of the group and I don't know how this will change these relationships longterm.

I have  learned that this feeling has stemmed from a deeper issue I have been battling for a better part of my adult life. Someone anonymously wrote: “I feel as though I am meant to understand, but not to be understood.” and the is EXACTLY how I feel. always.  I am alone in my thoughts, and while most times I enjoy this, it does cause for detachment from the rest of the world and that can be a lonely place to be.

I can’t say depression is a good thing, but it has been a teacher. It has taught me to be more compassionate.  If I can battle these feelings with “no real reason” to, then imagine how many people walking past me with a smile every day, are actually dying inside.  Probably more than I will ever know, because we don’t talk about it.  If i were to make a bet on how many people would ever think that I struggled with depression, I would likely guess 0. I am by nature, a very happy, positive and silly person.  Somehow we think this makes us invincible to things like depression, but it doesn’t.

We timidly love,

A gentle tangle of hearts,

And promises too.

A reflection on,

Light dripping through the water.

Inside, you embraced, sleeping.

A clear window along the wall and

I under moonlight, watching your melodic breath.

The wind whispers, so as not to wake you,    

                             dreaming

Our world....... it’s soft,

And your shape folds into the shadows of the sheets.

This Grace...... it’s simple, 

it touches this desperate nerve and plucks gleefully at the heart.

Home is a room, through the inside of me, and here.

                              here, our world, 

limbs under the dancing stars,

slipping, touching, falling.

All places, point us to this peace 

and

The squeal of that old door sounds, for those that dare open it in the dark night

                                      OPEN.

I have come away this morning, 

and standing just before dawn, the sky seems so far away.

A complex telescope and clatter far more crowded and spinning and for a moment,

it is shattering, swirling, and I am rotating inward.

This black hole, why did it grow so large?

How did the vast dark above me evolve before the light?

 I am in the throes of the dying stars, I gaze up...

I am one.

Then, a crescent image of the sun, 

it’s timely.

The most basic of promises,

and the erratic chunks of matter whirling in my chest, 

clear,

slowly.

I gaze up again,

life emerges across the rays and I have come for this ritual.

Where the dark and the light glide past each other, no different from those constant stars,

I sigh.

Life wins,

life wins.

I still live.

It patters lightly on the sill,

scattering, dispersing, strumming.

It’s grey, though still light and airy,

and the fog of sleep is,

still heavy on my eyelids.

I think:

It’s pleasant to wake up to the rain,

even when it’s your birthday.

Especially when it’s your birthday.

Then, the person you love, rolls over,

and into you,

and kisses the outline of your face,

no less than a million times,

and whispers: I love you,

My dad’s best friend died.  His name was Paul.  We went to his “celebration of life” and for once after a service, I didn’t feel depressed. I felt in awe and inspired.

Paul was years older than my father.  They met by happenstance when my dad walked into a bookstore, looking for an escape from his life, and a book.  Paul recommended authors like Kafka, and Dostoyevsky and Yeats.  This fueled my father’s hunger in knowledge and intellect.  He became a regular and later learned the hardships of Paul’s life.  

Paul was a foster child, separated from his siblings and abondoned and mistreated for a better part of his life.  He eventually married the single woman that he had ever loved and they had a child. 

I guess life does this.  It gives you everything you could ever want, dangles it in front of your face and just as you think you’ve grasped it, it goes.

His wife became ill.  He nursed her, he loved her, he stuck by her and, she died. This was tragic. It almost completely broke him.

After some time and with the concern of some friends, he began to socialize again.  Two good friends invited him out and included another single woman in the plan in hopes that she and Paul would hit it off.  Her name was Trudy and she had also suffered the loss of a great love.

Paul was kind but honest.  He had resigned himself to the heartbreak of losing his wife and he wasn’t ready to engage in any sort of relationship with Trudy.  He continued in his solace and there was no contact between the two of them.

I guess life does this next thing too.  It makes you think something is impossible and as soon as you accept this to be truth, it shows you that you’re wrong.  

Years later, he was ready. He called Trudy,  and they went on a date.  –I guess in love there is no age.  There is no amount of heartache that forces a heart to stop loving.  It can be made new, over and over and over again, in time. He and Trudy ultimately shared in this true blue, deep love, despite the loss they both had suffered.  It was really beautiful.

In the months before his death, my dad took Paul to many of his doctors appointments.  Somewhere in this time, Paul began to make peace with death. My father would share stories of these simple moments as did his wife after he died.  Two of them struck me so deeply.

The first was when he started to become physically very weak.  He asked my father to help him to his bedroom so he could lay down for a nap.  When my father did, Paul stretched across the bed with a loud sigh.  Just before falling asleep he motioned to a chair and asked my father to give him Trudy’s nightgown. “It smells like Trudy and I like to lay my head on it while I sleep”.  I write this, and it just feels so soft and tender and warm.  If there were any way to explain love, this would be it.

The second was after his passing.  Trudy opened an old drawer on a whim.  As she unfolded a shirt, a piece of paper floated to the floor.  While still alive, Paul wrote her a poem about the sound of her clothes tumbling in the washing machine as she did laundry.  It was this simple, uninspired, ordinary life thing and he was so present, watching her, listening and taking note of every moment.  

Trudy later shared that Paul would often leave random scribbles and poems strewn around the house for her to find.  They were both wildly independent people but, in love, they were young.  Because love is young and it resides in soft places.

Just before he died, Paul looked to my dad and said “It’s true what’s been written: This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

Remember when you almost stayed?

Remember when I almost left?

Remember when we almost went...

Together.

Remember when we almost talked,

And you almost heard me say...

I love you.

Remember almost?

I do.

I remember, almost.

————————————————————-

I feel peaceful, calm, relaxed

I feel sad, but with happy tears

I feel happiness, and love and hope

I feel like the ocean.

Today was a really sad fucking day. Grief knocked on my door and invited itself in. I am sad.

Sad.

For all that he’s missed

For him ever thinking that this world would be better served without him

For how out of focus his lens on life was

And how the fog was too heavy to allow us to reach through and show him clarity

For the ache that throbs like a new wound each year on this day

For the questions that fill the space that he used to own

For every single other person who has cried at the feet of suicide.