At Ease

I remember reading Jane Kenyon's poems at one of the worst points in my depression. Her collection "Constance" sat on my bedside table and I read it over and over and over again. She described the pain and anguish I was feeling better than anyone (save Sylvia Plath) I'd ever read. The words in this piece, from "Having It Out With Melancholy," pressed against my pain like a tourniquet, making it surge before it dwindled:

5. ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT

Once, in my early thirties, I saw

that I was a speck of light in the great

river of light that undulates through time.

I was floating with the whole

human family. We were all colors -- those

who are living now, those who have died,

those who are not yet born. For a few

moments I floated, completely calm,

and I no longer hated having to exist.

Like a crow who smells hot blood

you came flying to pull me out

of the glowing stream.

"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear

ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.

I read these poems now, the poems that pinpointed my agony, made me feel less alone, brought on wave after wave of uncontrollable tears, and they're like memories of a battle. They're the stories you tell about a scar.

I still feel as though I'm floating now. The days are flowing by, but for once, I don't feel disconnected, adrift, aimless. There's no one, no malevolent thing, to snatch me out of the light. The fear has faded, the panic is gone.

Silent All These Years

It's been a long time since I listened to Tori Amos. In high school, it was a daily thing. It fit perfectly with my emo/goth/friend o' the lesbians thing. I even got to see her perform at the Harrison Opera House - it was one of the first concerts I ever saw.

I remember singing these songs at the top of my lungs, shut up in my room with giant Koss headphones hooked up to my enormous (yet very cool at the time) bookshelf stereo system. Listening to them now is a bit different. My son sleeps upstairs and has no idea that Mommy is riding a piano down Amnesia Lane.

They're still amazing and intense, full of sadness and angst and quirkiness and sometimes rage. I still have the urge to sing at the top of my lungs, rocking back and forth, hammering my fingers on my desk like a piano keyboard. But that heart-wrenching teenage passion I felt is faded; it's given way to a sort of scarred sadness that hides underneath my daily self. The music's a stinging salve; memories burn, the scars pull taut, and sometimes I think what's hidden underneath will spill out and stain all the beauty that's in my life now.

He Saves My Life

Having worked with kids in the past, and babysat for what seemed like a million years, I know that one of the best parts of working with little kids is their hugs. They're sometimes sticky (or stinky, even), but so worth it. What I didn't know was how hugs and kisses from my OWN kid could save me from the worst days, the sad-sack days, the days when everything goes wrong. Or how your child can tell when something's bothering you, and gives you exactly what you need.

I've had kind of a crappy day. A lot of little things have gone wrong, nothing life-altering, but a little stressful just the same. When I went upstairs to get Austin from his afternoon nap, he looked up at me from his little blanket-nest in the crib and gave me a huge smile. "DA!" he said, and jumped to his feet. His little hands clutched the rail, and he flung his head into my chest -- his loving head-butt.

I carried him down the stairs. We reached the bottom, and instead of wiggling out of my arms, he shrieked when I tried to set him down and nuzzled his head into my neck. We walked around a little bit, me and my Bug, looking out the windows, talking to the dogs. I asked if he wanted to watch a show, and he nodded his head yes. Normally, he'll watch about five minutes of an episode of say, "Bob the Builder," and then ignore the TV and play. Today, when I sat down on the floor, he crawled into my lap and leaned back against me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed the top of his head, and he let out a big sigh. "Yeah, Buddy...tough day, huh?"

He nodded, "Da," and stroked my jeans. Tears welled up in my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of gratitude. Oh, why did no one ever tell me it could be like this?

Thank you, thank you, thank you, God or whoever, for this tiny person who heals my heart.

Don't Wanna

I'm having one of those days where I want to hide under the covers. I know I'll feel better after I get a shower and a second cup of coffee. But right now? It is teh suck.

The weather is beautiful, Kid is behaving (sort of), Hubs got out the door with breakfast in his stomach and lunch in his bag. But something's bugging me, and I can't put my finger on it. I'm a little tired...a little frustrated about work...a little annoyed that the kitchen sink was full of dishes when I got up this morning. Hopefully I can shake it all off before I head to work in a bit. If not, it'll be Surly Day at Starbucks.

Sometimes

Sometimes I miss sleeping until noon. Sometimes. Lazily rolling over, maybe sitting up briefly to read the paper and schlurp some coffee. Nowhere to be, no deadlines, no timelines, just morning.

Mornings now: a burst of whirlwind energy - get up feed the kid let the dogs out feed the dogs clean up kid say goodbye to hubs let the dogs back in WHEW! Then hours of play - don't hit me with your truck, NOT NICE. After that, it's silence while the kid sleeps and I find ways to avoid what I really should be doing (housework writing cleaning organizing exercising). Try as I might, I usually end up flopped on the couch with a Diet Coke, watching movies on Netflix. As soon as he stirs upstairs, I realize what I've not done (dishes lunch prep exercise letters dogs need OUT!).

And so goes my day, most days. Some days I stay on the ball, hausfrau in overdrive, and Hubs comes home to order (clean house clothes folded dinner on the table). Not today. Today I want to be in the dark, with curtains drawn, under covers and alone.