Depression is so egotistical. It’s all about the ‘I’. And if there is no ‘I’, then where does the darkness come from? Neurons? More looking at things in a way that keeps a person from finding contentment? I wish it would go away already. Strange how this time it’s not directed at anyone. Usually I feel discontent at how other people are relating to me, but after the eye-opening answers to my post from the other day, I realize there isn’t anyone to feel discontented with, but myself. Mike said sweet things about how well I take care of the baby, and while it felt good, I knew that subject had nothing to do with the reason I’m feeling down. And I watched a Surviving Motherhood episode about how husbands don’t help with the care of children. Again I detached from it, because I knew that wasn’t my situation. If I’m totally honest, my home life is pretty peachy. Mike is a good husband and an excellent father. P. is a loving, beautiful and brilliant son. Really the only break in the equation is me.
I realized (while in the shower) that the reason I’m not overly taken with the book review being published is that I’m using the book reviews as a way to hide. They’re great, please don’t misunderstand. I enjoyed the book, learned from the experience and feel grateful that I am able to do something like that. But honestly what I want most is my poetry out there. And that’s what I mean by hiding: I used to be able to look at the book reviews and say, “See? I’m published.” I don’t know who I was saying that to. Everyone who cares about me couldn’t care less what form my being published takes. But I know that the book reviewing is a way to tell myself I’m working/writing without actually taking a huge risk. That has to stop, and I stopped it tonight.
I have so much I want to say. Whether or not it’s important to anyone else, it’s important to me. And I want to say those things in poetry and short stories and paintings and photographs. Book reviews say little about me, other than I read the book and had some observations. Poetry…well, that’s a different animal entirely. It means something to me. And maybe that scares me. Finding meaning is inherently frightening, because it means I care. And if I care, that means I run the risk of being hurt when/if that thing falls apart/leaves/no longer exists. But so what? You can get hurt by sticking your hand on a hot stove. What’s the difference? At least the hurt that comes from losing something that meant something to you is for a reason. I can live with that.
There is so much changing inside me. I can feel it. I feel somehow less afraid and somehow completely terrified, both at the same time. I’m looking forward to so much, but also feel great trepidation. Maire, for some odd reason I think this changing started when you talked about opening a bakery. Such a little thing, really, but sometimes the little things are what make us examine our lives the most. I think I love this feeling, untamed and wild as it may be. Because it means I’m still alive somewhere inside. All the numbness and pretending has done nothing to dull that. I’m done with numbness and pretending.
I don’t want my life to be about doing anything; I want it to be about doing something that is important to me.
(I could never write this without music lulling me into a state of calm. Keep singing. Keep writing. And thank you, Mike, for taking the 10:00 feeding so I could lay in bed and write this.)
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