I wish I was depressed. Dirty, dark, dreary depression. It is so delicious. So tempting. So forgiving. It envelops. But I am well. Improved just enough so that I don’t sink into that beautiful state. Not well enough to fully function in the world. My paramour gives me permission. To not be. To sleep. To sink. To barely be.
My children keep me afloat to an extent. One of my children cried for a full hour last night. I rocked her back and forth the entire time. That is what keeps me going. At the same time it drains me. Being pulled in so many directions, when I think I can’t go on, that’s when these things happen. Somehow I get through the moment. I am not proud of that accomplishment. I am relieved it is over. That the kids are in bed.
That last drop of blood, squeezed from me, a stone, that seemed impossible to extract, yet here we are. There are a finite number of drops. A stone can only bleed so much. When it is completely dehydrated. Devoid of anything. When it would crumble in on itself. If it could. What happens then? Will my perfidious friend return?
Maybe there will be many returns to my friend. Break up, mend, break up, mend. The mends may be shallow enough to allow me to function during that relationship. Not so low that I can’t get out of bed. It may take longer, but I will put my feet on the floor eventually. Food will be ingested. Water and soap will trickle down my body. The children will get to school. Likely late. And then we will break up.
I will function a little better. I will still feel like crap. Maybe still depressed. But mildly so. Or maybe just sad at how life has turned out. Is turning out. Tired. Exhausted. No end in sight.
Yesterday I sat on the edge of the spare bed in the basement. I had already discussed with the kids that we would tidy one room every day until the house looked a little better. And then I thought, “Oh God. When I’m finished I’ll have to start all over again the next day. Sitting on that bed, I realized that even if I did that, and a laundry every day, and a dish wash every day, I would not be able to keep up. It would be impossible. The weight of that concept was crippling. It brought me to tears. I am never going to be able to breathe until my children all leave home, and I buy a one bedroom condo.
And what is life if we are hoping for our children to leave home? At the earliest that will be twelve years in the future. Am I really going to wish away my life like that? Or more importantly their lives? How can I create precious moments? How can I, or we, enjoy those that happen serendipitously? Not only is it my duty as a mother to raise secure children, it is what I want.
So what do the next twelve years looks like? I don’t know. None of us can predict our lives’ paths. Wishing away such a large part of my children’s lives is sad on so many fronts. And that is why I will fight that beautiful, cruel pull. That which wants to pull me under. He is the enemy. The power that can break my children. Take their security away. Their safety. Their humor. Their love. What child or person could grow up as they should have, when their mother made the choice to leave them permantently. Now there are those who may argue, myself included, that often argue it is not a matter of choice, but of desparation. The kids however, are likely just to remember that you are no longer there, to love, to love them, to hold, to cry with, and that you did this by your own hand.
I hope I die somewhat old. My physical and mental health is bad enough that I am likely to die much before the average female American lifespan. I intend to keep pushing and pushing until then, whenever that is.