depression – Page 2 – Purpose and Prose

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I wrote the following in a notebook the day I found out my father died, 7 days ago, on November 7th, 2018.

My dad passed away in the night and I find myself sitting under a weeping willow, writing, watching people texting, taking pictures, laughing – and it’s wondrous how some life goes on, others slow down and sometimes it just stops.

I see hundreds of busy ants collecting their days haul and I’m worried I sat on some. There’s a very tall man in a pale pink shirt speaking German and I’m reminded of my trip to Berlin during the 2010 World Cup when they lost to Spain in a crushing blow.

I remember how he called me sweetie.

My dad never really traveled outside of the U.S. I only recall him going to Mexico with my mom once on a vacation a few years ago. He complained the whole time, but when they got home he couldn’t stop talking about how amazing it was. That was typical dad though. He couldn’t be bothered or disturbed from his routine. Even if he ended up loving it. One of his favorite shirts was salmon-colored. Too pink for a brawny man like him, but I liked the way it brought out the blush in his cheeks.

I want to talk, but then I don’t, I want to scream, but I’m a child without a voice. I want to cry, but I realize I’m too tired, and I’m already crying.

Weeping willows have always been my favorite trees. I’ve known their sadness so much in my life, but not like today. To be sheltered under their shadows of draping limbs feels so comforting and serendipitous. All the trees are weeping today.

The high-noon sun is beating down so heavily and even though it feels good to have my skin warmed, I am aching. There’s a girl with purple hair and bangs eating a bag of chips saying “I love shit like this,” pointing at The Temple of Love statue in the garden. The stone is brilliant and the pillars are standing tall beside her, the same way my dad used to stand next to me. I love shit like this too.

Today is pregnant with color, but I am unfeeling and all feeling. My husband carelessly blows an ant off his arm as I am allowing them to take dominion over me. I have become one with the colony. I am their property now because I am no longer within myself.

The pain is

The Boy Who Never Sleeps

I was hospitalized recently. After 9 hours of tests, scans and lotsssss of morphine, it was determined that I had a ruptured ovarian cyst. (Didn’t even know I had a cyst.) (Also, didn’t know how painful a rupture could be! Answer: V.E.R.Y.) The experience left me dazed, dizzy and drunk, likely from the morphine. But weirdly enough, after feeling scared during a few points throughout the day, I left with a strange feeling of sadness that it wasn’t something worse.

I sat on this over the last week and went through a myriad of questions to understand why I felt that way. Did I want pity from people? Do I want to be a martyr? Why would I selfishly want for something worse? I’ve found my answer – I wanted to know what was next. What happens after this? What is the continuation of our human existence? I’m so excited to learn that answer that I felt impatient.

I have tried to commit suicide 3 times now. Each time, my life had been saved only by the grace of a higher power, and not by a mishap on my end. Fortunately, I have spent years in therapy, group sessions and additionally I have spent years mentoring and counseling young girls (and some boys) on depression and how to overcome childhood adversity. So my suicidal days are long behind me. Knowing this about myself, I was eager to learn why my curiosity for death came back, but in a new form.

I like the sentiment “I’d rather die 10 minutes early than 10 years too late,” but it doesn’t completely apply to how I feel. I am ready when the universe deems me ready. On my last attempt with suicide, I remember looking up at the sky in a nearly blacked-out state saying, “I get it, you win.” And I meant that 100%. I am powerless over my own death. The universe, God, my higher power, Mother Earth – the Architect – directed me down a challenging, beautiful, tragic, brilliant path and I am forever grateful for every day I wake. I am also grateful for my abnormal and unexpected desire to understand death as it’s enabled me to live with no fear. My fearlessness and resilience are two of my favorite attributes of myself.

I wrote a post last year, “Accepting Death & Being Rewarded with Life,” where I talk about the bliss of owning your own life and no longer being beholden to your death. I encourage all who read this to try contemplating their own death for a little bit to see what fears, notions, and stirrings come up. Only when we ask questions and seek answers will we know the depths of ourselves. Stay curious my friends.

(I wrote this poem two days after my hospital stay.)

A Slow-Burn
Please don’t forget.
I know your memory flickers like an old tallow candle.
A strong, vibrant burn.
Pure without smoke, but with one clever gust –
Extinguished.
Longing to light a room once more.
But don’t forget this one.
Delicate caresses from tender hands.
Dizzying, drunken cells excited, heated,
Fireflies born between them.
Please don’t forget.
A tear fell from your left eye as a strand of your curled strawberry hair was tucked gently behind your ever-eager and listening ear.
You were frightened but he was there.
Allowing a soft brush alongside the curve of your cheek and down the jaw,
Eyes meeting only briefly in the dimly lit 3am apartment.
Recall, be certain, do not alter this one.
It’s innocent.
Comforted by your ancestry, affectionate solicitude.
His fountain streaming into your blood and circulating through thoughts and daydreams.
Never waking, forever wanting,
Another foggy ocean night.
Please don’t forget the harmonies of your heartbeats, the rhythm and pulse, raising and lowering your heavy head upon his sleepy chest.
His hand lowered slowly,
Drifting, drifting, drifting…
Dreaming of his moonlit ballerina in the sand.
His eyes, his hands, his thoughts pulling you in, holding at a distance.
Unrequited or not, the sky is twinkling with his songs,
And your hands are filled with stars.
The dance, the kindness, the faithful hearts that are never to be misjudged.
Too true the intentions to have standoffish defenses –
Love is a flower and he is your garden.
Thankful and enraptured that you’re allowed to love him
But whatever you do,
Don’t forget –
This is a sober love.
One without surrender,
The kind that is forever patient and requiring protection.
Like your slow-burning memory and its glass hurricane against the harsh winter winds.