Going on three days’ worth horrible bone pain. Nothing attenuates it. Dr. is unsympathetic. I’m running a solid 9 on the pain scale and he suggests Tylenol in addition to the other meds I take. It does not work. He grumbles and gives me the mildest opioid there is.
I’m not a pill head; never have been. If I could have a couple of shots of Ruby Red, I’d probably feel better, but the thought of alcohol gives me waves of nausea.
I washed my sheets yesterday. I moved my bed a foot. I cooked for the first time in two months-no, three. I threw away one more useless item.
Good night’s sleep by my standards means that I woke up fewer than ten times and fell asleep again before the night clerk at Hotel Anxiety rang the bell. I had a good night’s sleep.
No clean sheets, though. They are drying now. I slept on a bare mattress, contrary to every tenet of home training I had. I did drag the covers off my absent roommate’s bed (she’s temporarily in a nursing home. I hope.) and her cat immediately found a corner of the blanket to knead and suck. That poor feral baby slept against my legs all night, her delicate ethereal weight letting me know that she exists in a sad, grieving place of confusion.
Two cups of black coffee have a sedative effect. Feral kitty and and Black kitty settle in: her at my calves, him down my back. I think they like this routine.
Lunch is leftovers. I wanted a fish sandwich. I’m lying. I wanted two fish sandwiches. The echoes of depression voices channeled by my mother, filtered by my guilt, amplified by my depression keep me at home, in slippers, the clothes I’ve slept in for four days, and well, shit, it’s Monday.
Tomorrow might be better. I might be able to slog through the mud and fog again. Today, today continues.
I put a new roll of toilet paper . . . On the holder. It felt like I’d completed a workout in the rain barefooted.
Depression is a catch-all term for a whole plethora of symptoms relating to the psychological and physical inability to function like normal people do in the real world. Allegedly. We depressives tend to not talk much about the various ways our depression will sabotage our efforts to function. I like to write. I like to create. Mostly, what I do is nothing. My bed calls me, dirty sheets and all. And every time I crawl under the covers, right before I sigh with exhaustion, I think, I should change the sheets and throw these in the washer and take out the trash and wash the dirty dishes and clean the kitty pan and . . .
Two hours later, the nap has succeeded in making me feel worse. I still can’t move, though. I should hang up those clothes. I should go visit my friend in the nursing home. I need to write. I have some orders I could be working on. Those dishes aren’t cleaning themselves. Those sheets are getting sadder by the minute.
Depression lowers the immune system. Being the misanthrope I am these days, about half the time I go out of the house, I get sick with something: bronchitis, stomach viruses, strained tendons, 6-5 and pick’em.
My truck had four active recalls on it when I took it in for work. 24 hours later, I felt like a new deckhand working a tuna boat on the Atlantic in January with a violent storm blowing in. My cat curled up on my head, all 17 pounds of him, purring like a kitty generator. I firmly believe that my fever would have lasted at least another day if not for his medical intervention. As soon as I started sweating, he moved down to my icy feet and draped himself over them until they warmed up. Three days later, I’m still not well physically. Kitty did check on me last night, delicately licked my eyelid, and settled down for a nap on my painful shoulder, purring contentedly.
The first glimmer of a break in the clouds just happened a few minutes ago. You see, I try to listen to comedy bits, and they say laughter is the best medicine. It’s actually more like a vitamin supplement: the placebo effect temporarily supplants the depression. This small window of not-feeling-hideous could be used to wash the sheets, I suppose. I’m going to try it, see if this actually makes it to the bedroom. If it does, Ch. 2 might be a progress report.
A therapist once told me that I thrive on becoming rather than being. He was
right, but I didn’t understand at the time it is a double edged sword
The excitement of becoming is a drug that can chase one into madly searching for somewhere to land
Being. Ah, being. Just being. It sounds like stasis. Boring, Stuck.
At this age, I realize that stasis is equilibrium and that is a very good thing. Balance.
Not a teetering on the edge kind of balance, but a discrete place of action and calm.
Pity this wisdom comes so late in life, but the richness of nuance and meaning adds immeasurably to each precious day on this side of the dirt.
Experiences become a symphony of light and serenity
of satisfaction and grace notes of grief and booms of being one in this place
while memories race to claim a seat in reality, they add color and depth
to what is already at hand
I want to taste and feel and understand and stay still in the moment
It is a good thing, a very good thing, to be here.
Irascible writers are blown by the
winds to their place, screaming or quiet
In life, as in marriage or writing or working or drinking or making love or sweating out a hangover
This morning, I arrived at the intersection of mortality and denial. The past, present, and future sat at a cafe table, sipped lattes, and watched as my steps became hesitant.
The past delicately placed a five on the table. “My money’s on knowledge. She’s seen this one before and chose–well, if not wisely, then correctly.”
Present added a fiver. “I don’t know. Lately, she’s been just waiting and not doing. I’m going with what I see now.”
Future smirked and placed a ten under the cold candle. “You all know I have to cover both positions.”
I looked both ways and sighed. There must be a third choice I cannot yet see. Frost may have gotten it wrong. I took out my notebook and started writing down the possibilities.
Wings sprouted from my shoulders and lifted me up, over the intersection, over the obstacles, away from the cafe. From above, I could see both roads. I clutched my notebook to my chest and smiled. So, the writer’s way, then.
A passing waiter collected the money off the table and smiled at the trio staring openmouthed as I disappeared.
“It’s a push. Better luck next time.”
I dragged these boots through the mud for months
Through the beating sun
Through biting flies
Through circles of swamp and lonely cold beans in the can
Through dusty nameless plains of cactus and snakes
I fell to my knees
I stared at cool stars until the fever broke and rest came
I am, I go on, I am empty, I go crazy and try to touch the sky
I chew on solitude
It tastes like old leather
And aches of a sky so blue it snatches my breath away
There is no turning back from these atrocities. There is no “I was just joking” minimizing.
This is the pivot point. We either reclaim our humanity or we continue down hell’s path.
I spoke to a woman who was nonchalant. She said, I’m legal. I stared at her. She was engulfed in “I got mine.”
I shopped today, minding my place. White supremacy. It hangs on me like a spiderweb.
I don’t know how to shed it. But I can do something. I can be one among many.
I can be non-centered. This isn’t my world. I just live in it. I can speak out as a human.
I make it an awareness and a yoke.
It is. It is a sunset in the finite understanding of tarot card readers and icy cold beers drawn from a
tap.
What is inside curls like smoke to the air.
It bends in the darkness that has settled over this big, brawling country.
My tiny flame, other tiny flames will form the fateful lightning of a terrible, swift sword. And truth will march on…
The afternoon breeze whipped a fly-spotted curtain into that peculiar fabric dance of letting go
I sweated and smoked, blew rings that vanished honorably like poets from decades ago flicked the same ashes as they thought drowsy thoughts and contemplated what words,
what words, what words
There aren’t any words. There’s just the bottle that drips time down to the table.
Time.
And soon, as the sun sets with orange and purple twilight chomping at the bit to bring its brief blaze of glory, a glorious interlude between sweating and swearing and yearning
to cool streetlights, nature night sounds, rustlings of words that sneak by in the dark
little thieves of time and comfortable existence
I took a walk in the woods one day on a well-worn path dappled with shade and sun
beside the path, a quiet creek made its run
to the ocean, you say, but maybe to a thirsty belly or a still
The earth felt alive and laughing at my puny existence as I ground out the miles without a real sense of distance,
but miles went by.
I heard a hum, like the twang of a lonely banjo that slides in and out of the mountains after a midnight rain when the fog settles low
The hum of the earth, the world, the sentience of startling rocks that pace my path, not as stumbling blocks, but
guides to the secrets of the ground
If I only listen and dissolve my barriers of skin, mortal skin
Pluff mud poetry 
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