I’d been on the couch all morning, still battling the fine line between better and not, and not was winning. Only the clock ticking closer to 11:30 pushed me toward reality.
The logical part of my brain was urging me up. You have to get up, it said, before he gets home from dino camp. Just GET UP. Don’t succumb.
I knew it was right, but I ignored it. I played the usual game – you can’t, or you don’t want to?
Neither? Both?
I know. I need to get up and get dressed. There’s only so long you can sit on the couch wondering what the hell is wrong with you and trying desperately to hold back the tears.
I finally tweeted myself off the couch, had a shower, got dressed and came back downstairs.
The list of things I could do – should do – was long. But the couch won.
When Connor came home it was with a burst of energy, bringing life back into the living room. A bouncy ball, retrieved from his dinosaur egg pinata, flew around in a flash of orange. He was revved up, full of leftover excitement from his day camp activities and bursting with anticipation of backyard camping that night.
When he’s excited he’s physical and loud. I sat on the couch, paralyzed, sensory overload taking over all rational thought.
It’s too much.
As though physically pushing in the clutch, I forced my brain to switch gears. You need to eat something. You’re due for a med dose.
I stood up, focusing on making sandwiches. I can do that and then retreat upstairs, I thought.
But I was back in the company of those who understand, no longer alone where letting the tears fall leads to a flood I can’t control. The dam broke and the tears were set free.
I’m sick of the rug underneath me going very suddenly MIA. I’m sick of the tears. I don’t know if this is worse than the anger and irritability, but it feels worse. I never used to feel this way. I’m in it – this black hole of depression – and I don’t know how to get out.
After all this time, my husband understands. He gives good hugs and he’s willing to be the voice of reason.
“I know. But it will be okay. It will.”
When? When will it be okay?! It’s been THREE YEARS.
A small voice.
“What’s wrong, mama?”
I don’t even know how to answer this anymore.
“Mama is sad”? But mama is sad way too often and that’s not how I want him to think of me.
“Mama is sick”? But I don’t want him to worry.
In the end I was saved from having to find a response.
“Here’s a picture. I made this for you.”
He brought it home from camp. It’s a dinosaur, I assumed, but I asked anyway.
“It’s an airplane!”
Oh.
Not a dinosaur? Or are the dinosaurs in the airplane? Do you think dinosaurs even fit in airplanes?!
I can still play the silly mama.
He paused, deep in thought.
“Maybe little ones do.”
That he took the question so seriously, answered so earnestly, made me laugh. In so many ways three is such a perfect age.
And then he said it.
“It will be all right, mama. Put this picture I made you on the fridge and it will be all right.”
Then he was gone, having turned away to help make sandwiches, focusing very carefully on lining up the bread just so.
But I couldn’t see, because my eyes had filled up, the tears spilling over in gratitude and love for his wisdom, his sureness, his caring.
I put the picture on the fridge – I don’t even know which way it’s supposed to face, but I placed it high enough that he can’t steal it away – where it has stayed. And he was right.
At the end of the day, things are closer to being all right.
