Thursday, January 10, 2013
WIBWIW ~ Soul-Crushed
Like, I hadn't prepared anything to post for today and was just gonna refer folks to yesterday's post 'cause, you know, I dig it when folks read my stuff, and whatnot. (Also, y'all know I'm lazy as sin. Sloth, you dig?) But then some stuff went through my mind and I just felt like getting it out. Releasing it.
Not that anything bad happened today. In fact, I happily anticipated the day, as I was to work with some colleagues at my day job that I only really work with a few times a year, some cool cats whose company I enjoy. One came ahead of the group, as he and I had some preliminary set up to sort out. He asked how I was and somewhere in my reply I said the words "soul-crushed." He looked a bit concerned at first but, as he then proceeded to repeatedly reference his fear that he might crush my soul inadvertently, I finally had to tell him to quit breaking my chops or I'd call HR and complain about my hostile work environment. Good times. :-)
Sitting here this evening, gobbling down my third Mrs. Fields cookie, it occurred to me that I really have felt "soul-crushed" often in the past...oh, I dunno...five years? Anyway, yeah, I've certainly felt that level of despair, but I've been on antidepressants since late August, which help me stay on an even keel...except when my monthly comes, I must admit. Oh, how the hormones rage! It's so bizarre, being a woman...and being human.
I've mentioned feeling desolate in the two weeks immediately after Balthazar left for his first year of college. I wept for those two weeks, all day long that first day he was gone, then sporadically and suddenly. Over the next two weeks I frequently had to close my office door at work, because the tears struck stealthily, apropos of nothing. I had fits of despondency. That, too, was surreal. I just couldn't control myself. God, it was awful.
Adding to the sense of loss and crisis of identity, the move back to my parents' place, necessary so that I could cover the tuition/room and board fees not covered by Balthy's scholarship and financial aid, weighed heavily on my mind. To finance the loss of my birdling, I had to lose the nest. WTF? Surely the first loss was painful enough?
Eleven days after the Kid left, I suffered an attack of ick so powerful, I felt like I needed to tear it out of my body. I grabbed my laptop and started typing:
This ache for my kid, for my life, for all I'm to lose, and all I never had,
roils in my gut, an omnipresent nausea
threatening to erupt in a projected stream of sorrow, suffering, and misery.
And then I blow and it all pours out, like the terror-filled howl of a beast in the wild.
Only, no answering howl comes, and so I shuffle and snivel back into myself,
uneasily anticipating the next outburst of grief.
It didn't really help. Plus, it's dreadful poetry. Blerch.
Balthazar going away/me losing my apartment weren't the triggers of my depression, they were simply the tipping point when I knew I needed help. Since the meds, the only times I get that close to hopelessness are when I've got my period. Or, you know, when I get rejection letters from agents, and whatnot. Just kidding. It's actually when agents get their periods that I feel all shook up. I'm sensitive that way.
So yeah, it's le suck being soul-crushed. Yay, drugs!
PS: Cheery affirmations about how folks can help themselves feel better by "thinking positively" and that negative thinking leads to "self-fulfilling prophecies," are bullshit, and aiming that crap at a seriously depressed individual is stupid, insensitive, and should be criminal. You want to help? Tell the person you're there for whatever s/he needs and then make sure you are.