I used to wear my heart on my sleeve and everything was fine. Your heart is okay on your sleeve, it beats there, sometimes it gets it in the way, but, you can wear long sleeves. Give your heart less exposure.
Now I wear my heart on the internet. And that can be a little gross.
Take yesterday for instance.
My dead sister is not making me fat. It’s that bloody supermarket. And the drive thru. And Hilda becoming so dusty she needed a wash. I had bouts of depression before Libby died. I can’t blame the squeeze of my jeans on anyone except me.
This morning, not in the shower because I’m not that organized, I realized that my black dog, Sooty, is walking me around already. Der. That’s why you’re on Esipram, Nicki.
Life experience can count for much. You’ve been there before, you know what it’s like, you can do it again. For instance, driving home. You know they way, left, straight, right, three streets along, down the hill, you’re home. You could do it with your eyes shut if it weren’t for pedestrians.
Depression seems to be something you can’t rely on experience for. Before you get it, sure, if you’re good enough to notice it coming. And after, look back, see what worked and for God’s sake write it down!
Yesterday I didn’t know I was depressed. I’d forgotten. I typed that post (actually, Sooty was typing and I was wishing she’d stop) and even as I was typing I thinking this hasn’t all been bad, this journey, what were you doing before that made it less insufferable? You’ve blogged about it, you know you have, what was it? How did you cope?
Memoirists can be an unseemly bunch, well this one can be. Splash it out on the internet, throw around how crap you feel, shame yourself with your desperate sentences. I could have done my homework. I could have looked back through the blog before I published. None of you would have known about my Fat Passenger and I wouldn’t be feeling sheepish. Baa.
Last night, I looked back through Days of Hilda.
In my reading I discovered that a tool that works on this journey is acceptance. Accept that you are sad, your sadness is real, and proper, but don’t turn into a meteor of tears and snot and recrimination hurtling down to crush you into uselessness.
There will always be June. I have to accept it and acceptance isn’t living in fear of all the Junes ever after. As a friend said, June will pass, it always does, and I will come out the other side that bit stronger knowing I survived it.
My dead sister, Libby, did not make me fat. She makes me smile. And cry. Makes my nose tingle and my eyes water while I’m smiling.
hey, I thought this joint was called Platypus Rock