The day I didn’t want to write

Content Warning: Depression

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The day I didn’t want to write wasn’t so long ago.

That’s never a great start to a story, right? Especially one about a writer.

Maybe not, but it’s the honest truth. I had been slowly spiraling down into the deepest depression I have ever experienced and that’s what depression does.

Depression isn’t just feeling down in the dumps and oh well time to smile and be happy again because everything will be all right. There is a thing called functioning depression, and that, well that has it’s own miseries to it.

But if you reach the point of not wanting to do the things you know you used to enjoy, when you no longer can enjoy them even when you try, that, my friend, is a deep problem.

The thing is, it’s an easily hidden problem. It’s easy to overlook. Others may have no idea. You might not even realize what’s going on.

I’m fortunate because I was watching closely. From one crisis to another, from one unsafe or careless or inconsiderate choice after another by others, I realized I was slipping away. I didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Even as much as I still cared for the world at large, and even as much as I didn’t want the rest of my life, however long it would be, to be miserable, I felt that ultimately none of it made a difference or was worth anything.

I’d been practicing all sorts of self care methods, trying to be kind to myself, trying to make my expectations realistic and reasonable. I’d been seen, heard, understood by a few. I’d been misunderstood or perhaps even considered a nuisance by others.

I was living through trauma. We all were. And I had an extra complication on top of mine that some simply could not compute. They couldn’t see the world the way I did. I’m sure to them I was full of overreactions.

I’m not here to argue my trauma is worse than someone else’s.

I just know what mine did to me.

The day I no longer wanted to write, that thing, that singular thing I’ve been good at and enjoyed for years, the very thing I studied and realized I had found my treasure chest, something I could do for ever and enjoy the time-consuming, painstaking process. The day I no longer wanted to write was a day that part of me died and sat decomposing in my chest. And I just wanted it gone. I didn’t even want to mourn it. Because it didn’t matter.

So I stopped. In a way it was a kindness. I removed the pressure. The joy was gone; the guilt could die with it. The aspirations of publication, the wish to say something worth saying on a mass scale, and the desire to prove to myself I could do something even with the odds stacked against me, those were all gone.

Years of work and dreams no longer mattered.

It was a slow chiseling away, but not one that led to a beautiful statue or anything noteworthily good. And when that last piece finally broke off, I didn’t want to search for it.

That’s what depression did to me.

I wasn’t me anymore. I was a new being, but a shell of one. It wasn’t a rebirth; it was just a walking death.

Writing wasn’t the only thing that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing I did or could do or would do mattered.

That was a dark time, and one most people who know me didn’t know about. I’m grateful for the support from those who did. I’m grateful the intensity of that time has dwindled. I’ll tell you about the good things sometime, but for now, this is a story with an uncomfortable pause. Depression does that. Let’s talk about it. Let’s not always counter it with “happy happy joy joy.” That won’t help the people who are in their darkest moments. Listening and accepting them, exactly as they are in that moment will do more than you may imagine.

Those difficult emotions are there for a reason. And when apathy sets in, that’s a warning sign.

Listen to those emotions. Watch for that warning sign. If someone you know is going through this (likely, even if you don’t realize it), sit with that discomfort. Not to live in it forever, but to understand, to learn, to be curious.

That’s how you find the way out.

Thunder

Superman needs the sun.

I need thunderstorms.

There is no other energy quite like it. I feel it in my soul even more than my body, and it energizes me like nothing else.

Thunder has many tones. A soft, distant rumble, like a mother’s strong voice from inside the womb. A sharp, powerful crack, like a verdict that reveals truth. And a dozen variations inbetween. All of which, to me, are like the loving voice of God.

Contrary to what might be more logical, when I hear thunder, no matter how far or close it is, I feel safe. (Yes, when it’s very close I may still jump. But then I’m fine.)

I came to terms long ago that if God wanted to strike me down with a bolt of lightning then there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And that, perhaps ironically, gave me peace.

At least with lightning.

I’ve been struggling lately with faith, beliefs, base understandings I’ve always held. Thunder, though it comes from the sky, grounds me. Maybe I don’t have to have all the answers. It’s okay if right now I’m more full of questions and doubts than certainties. When I hear thunder, blessedly a near daily gift in this seasonal weather, I have an anchor. Something bigger than me. Something unknown, strong and powerful, yet gentle and soothing. Something intangible yet physical. Something spiritual.

Superman needs the sun to recharge.

I need thunder to remind me to keep going.

Mother’s Day Part Two: Gains

Last week I wrote about Mother’s Day and the loss of my mother. This week I’d like to add part two: what I have gained.

The first time I met my now mother-in-love we were having dinner at one of my favorite restaurants down the street. She was late and that was a concern because as I know now she’s always on time and even early.

Turns out the car clock had been messed up after a routine maintenance stop and she just didn’t realize it.

I was nervous. You know, trying to make a good impression nervous, but by the end of the meal I was so tickled happy I wasn’t very worried anymore.

That was the beginning of a relationship I treasure daily, even when I don’t know how to express it.

Such as with names. I’m the awkward type of person who will address you exactly as you introduce yourself to me. If you say your name is Charles, and I hear another friend call you Charlie, I will still forever call you Charles until you tell me it’s okay to use the nickname.

So when my mother passed away just a few months after my wedding and I hadn’t yet started calling my mother-in-love “Mom” or some variant of that, I had a difficult time figuring out what to do. I hope this didn’t hurt her. It wasn’t her; it was 100% me. I felt then and still do feel close to her. I was just having a hard time losing one mother so soon after gaining another and adjusting the names I used. Saying “Mama” was painful and reserved for grieving. But, eventually, I think two Christmases later (I am ever grateful for your patience!) I checked if I could and then added “Mama” to her first name.

It may seem like a small thing, but it meant the world to me. I’d had a mama the whole time, I had gained more patient love, and I could finally express it out loud.

Musings on Mother’s Day and Loss

Mother’s Day used to fill me with some sort of unease. My mom never wanted anything, but I wanted to give her nice things, even better if it was things she actually would enjoy. Those were hard to find and figure out. She never wanted much, and that’s something I think I learned from her, for better or worse.

When my mom was sick, it was even harder to find ways to celebrate her that she would enjoy. One of the last things I did with her wasn’t for any particular holiday, just a day of visiting, and is a memory I treasure.

We were coloring.

That’s it. Just coloring together.

I had bought her an adult coloring book — I figured she would enjoy the more intricate pictures so I was glad they were a trending thing — filled with birds, butterflies, flowers, the like. I had also gotten myself one of owls. Hers I shipped to her from the store, along with markers. Mine I packed in my backpack for my flight.

We sat on the couch next to each other and just colored. We talked a little, but mostly just focused. She’d been having trouble with that, so it was nice to see when she stuck her tongue out and chose between the colors and went all at it.

I often wanted to celebrate my mom while she was alive. She never really cared for that much. But she loved it when we just spent time together. We used to watch movies and talk about them. We would talk about serious theological issues together — questioning with honesty some tricky concepts. And we talked about silly things.

After her chemo treatments, when her hair grew back, I remember her laughing and pointing out how her wavy curls had turned into super soft “super curls.” I had an essay assignment in college, and I wrote about that conversation. I wrote about my mom. It was a relatively easy way to fill an assignment and get the A…because I know a lot about my mama and I like talking about her.

When the initial shock and loss wore off, the heart aching that came after was untenable. Holidays, special events, Mother’s Day. All of them were harder because I knew I couldn’t just pick up the phone and talk to her. Not this time. Not anymore.

I’ve experienced more and profound loss since then, experiences that have shaped and educated me, but the day she died is still one of the worst in my life.

Mourning takes time. Grief never fully goes away. But now, with time, even on Mother’s Day it doesn’t hurt quite as violently.

Time is the distance we travel even if we don’t go anywhere. I don’t love my mom any less, but the wound, then so fresh and deep, has healed some. Maybe not fully. Maybe it never will. But her love helped me heal, even as I missed her. Even as I missed her, her love was still with me.

I’m getting choked up thinking about it, how I do still miss her, and I’m okay with that. I knew early on and I still hold that I don’t want the loss of my mama to hurt less. The pain is testimony to how important she was to me and how important she is for who she is.

And that’s something that even time will not change.