My first post is up on World Moms Blog and it’s about maternity leave in Canada. Yes, we get a full year and while I won’t complain – because I believe everyone should get that opportunity and it’s good for both mother and babe – at times it felt too long for me.
C’mon over and share your thoughts!
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.
Start to cut down, she said.
Just once a day do half
And keep taking a full dose
At midday and in the afternoon.
Okay, sounds easy enough I figured.
I want to come off this
So I found the centre line
Of the little orange pill and
I cut. Small pill made smaller.
But as it turns out there’s
A fine line between a full
And half dose, especially without discussion
Of withdrawal symptoms for this med.
It’s been two days, only two
With the morning dose halved, but
That’s all it took to start
Feeling as though something was off.
If only I had been informed.
As it turns out there is
Also a fine line between off
And on. Between feeling good and
Feeling the good start slipping away.
I’m not feeling good right now
But I’m willing to see if
Things improve, even though the voice
On the line offered no reassurance.
Someone who is supposed to help,
But actually makes things much worse.
That’s it. I’ve made a decision.
It’s the end of the line.
I’m taking a stand now, finally,
The newest in a long line
Of people who have said “enough”.
Enough. I deserve to be heard.
I’ve put my life on hold
For long enough. I no longer
Want the line between feeling “better”
And “not” to be so fine.
[I love Six Word Fridays – this approach stretches my writing style and somehow it’s easier to write stuff like this in that format. Thanks to Melissa for doing this and for all the great prompts. This week’s was “line”.]
Driving down the road, I see her. A block or so ahead, she’s standing at a bus stop and I notice her immediately because her face is white. Not white as in Caucasian, just white. Really white.
“What is up with her face?!”
The thought crosses my mind before I’m able to catch it, but it’s immediately pushed down by a newer, more understanding voice. The one that reminds me that I have no idea what might be happening for someone else. That she might be sick. That she might be expressing an inner struggle through her outer appearance. That she might just do her makeup that way.
Or maybe it was the way the light reflected off of her. I’ll never know, because I actually didn’t see her face up close as I drove by. I was watching traffic. I was participating in the dialogue in my head and acknowledging its rightness.
Or maybe I wasn’t meant to actually see her and identify the cause. Because it doesn’t matter, does it? We are who we are and, for the most part, it’s not for others to judge.
That ain’t the picture, it’s just a part, sang Amanda Marshall. Everybody’s got a story that could break your heart.
I understand that better now and I know it’s true.
I’ve got my own stories and I’ve been privy to so many others.
For a long time I resented what my experience with depression took from me, but now I appreciate the gifts it’s giving back. Compassion. Understanding. Tolerance. Love. And the honour and endless gratitude that comes with being entrusted with another’s story. Even if – perhaps especially if – it breaks my heart.
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You spring from bed in the morning, awake, bright-eyed and ready to go. My eyelids feel like sandpaper. A glance between half-open eyes reveals the clock: 6:12 a.m. I roll over and wonder how long I can put you off, but I know it’s coming.
“Let’s go downstairs!”
As I stand I feel the effects of the night. We never planned to co-sleep but you don’t sleep without one of us there, so I’ve slept in your bed – balancing on the edge, muscles tensed so I don’t fall off on one side and don’t elbow you in the head on the other. I cherish your sleeping form on these nights – your quiet, soft breathing and your smallness – but I wake with the ache of not enough sleep in a bed you like to hog.
You get downstairs and are overwhelmed with the abundance of choices – breakfast? TV? Toys? What to do first? My first instinct is to get the kettle going so I can have a cup of tea.
“Do you want to play with me?” Asked over and over, this question leaves scars in my heart. The honest answer is sometimes no. I wish I wanted to play with you, but I’m tired. My brain is not awake. I want to drink my tea and read my email and enjoy the morning while you play next to me, but you’re not at the stage where playing alone is what you want.
The backyard beckons. I see you heading toward the sliding door and my heart sinks. Outside, to you, is an extension of your ecstasy – the sandbox, diggers, weeds to poke at and caterpillars to search for. I’m in my pajamas and it’s chilly and I’m not prepared to deal with sand before 7 a.m.
I love you, hard, with the fierceness of a mother who has created life. I love you, softly, with my heart full of the child you are and the person you are becoming.
When I’m not tired – when I’m in my mama zone – I can do it. I rejoice in the experience, seeing the world from your perspective. From down low as you search for leaves or sticks or crabs or shells, and from up high in that place of wonder as you discover something new.
But lately I’ve been tired and that makes all those good things elusive.
I don’t love you any less. In fact, I might love you more because I can’t give you what you need. It’s just that today I couldn’t do it.
