I haven't written in a long time. Facebook updates, no matter how quirky, cute, droll or witty do not count as writing. My facebook posts have not been particularly quirky, cute, droll or witty, but pathetic attempts to reach out to humanity, passive aggressive entreaties for comfort, compassion and money. Kidding about that money part.
I've been a little blue. I've said it before and I'll likely say it again and again, depression is a fuck...a bad fuck. Some of the sad is due to sad things happening in the world, in the bigger world (right wing nut bags, right wing nut bags with guns) and in my own small world; my mom is ill and I've been trying to take care of her and my kids, my marriage, my house, my dog, my lawn, my garden, my hopes dreams aspirations and sanity. I haven't talked about it publicly, but my dad is ill. Very ill. It appears my parents might both be gearing up to depart this earthly plane soon. It's just a matter of time and stubbornness, who's gonna go first. I visualize dueling his and hers grim reapers, or my parents as human milk cartons with fast approaching expiration dates. I also imagine my parents in the same room (they haven't been in the same room since February 1st, 1998) arguing about who's checking out first. In my weird fantasy, each one is cursing the other while gasping their last. "Screw you, John," Mom says to Dad, "I'm not giving you the satisfaction of dying first. You're not going to win this thing! I'm gonna watch you die first if it's the last thing I do!" and my dad will say something like, "Over my dead body." This makes me smile a little. What can I say. I spend a lot of time in my own weird dark little head.
But back to the subject at hand: I'm trying to make peace with the dysthymic aspect of my aspect. It's just a part of me. If I was an apple, instead of seeds I'd have little tear shaped shiny blue-black beads rattling around in my core.
When I was a kid my favorite character of all time was Eeyore. I loved him more than any other. I figured if Eeyore and I ever met, we'd be sulk-buddies, we'd mope, sigh and slouch around together. It would be awesome. I've always been a little sad, a little weird, drawn to sad weird things, broken and worn things. It's just how I came into the world. Not good or bad, just so.
Introspection and an appreciation for the sad stuff doesn't have to be a bad thing, as long as I remember I'm not a bad thing for being drawn to the stuff I'm naturally drawn to.
Thinking I'll be happy when I can finally kick depression to the curb and break it with a quick kick to the skull with my boot is about as dumb as saying I'll be happy as soon as I grow another couple inches. I'm 46, I'm on the short end of things and I'm getting ready for the great shrinkage. I am never ever going to be any taller than I am today. My height is a fact, and changing it is not going to happen. Being a melancholy baby is just as absolute. I can put on high heels and totter around but that doesn't make me a tall gal. I can paste a smile on my face and whistle a happy tune, but that doesn't change me.
So, I guess I am going to have to find a way to honor the rattling blue-black sad at my core. Maybe by accepting the sad, I will find a my own kind of happy. Denying one's intrinsic nature leads to shame and shame is depression's right hand man. Accepting the true self is good. So perhaps the sad without the shame could lead to sad without bone marrow deep despair. Dunno. Worth a try.