Quagmired

I was never really depressed in high school. I was your typical self-absorbed, overly dramatic, angst-ridden teen, but never really depressed. I’ve been in “funks” and been sad and lonely before, but never depressed.

What I’m getting at here is I think I’ve been depressed lately.

The other day I came home feeling completely deflated. Despite having a pretty normal day, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that everything was hopeless. I cried at work a lot (undetected, I believe) and cried when I came home, too. There was nothing I could pinpoint as the source of my sadness beyond the general residual pain of Mom’s death. But when you’re constantly coping with something it sort of fades in with daily life. I realize it every now and again when I’m having an off day—“Oh, I’m sad about Mom right now”—but it has always been a manageable, practical experience. The depression, though, was different. There are many positives in my life right now, but they all seemed pointless, irrelevant, distant. As a known control freak, I find it unnerving to be unable to master my own emotions. On the whole, I tend to cope pretty well with struggles—and with the help of friends, family, and most importantly, Travis, I’ve been able to come through the last year and a half pretty well. But, every now and then, this sticky grief takes over and I find myself completely and utterly out-of-order.

I should really be seeing a therapist, but this blog (and my poetry and journals and Travis) will have to do for now. This really is just an extension of the previously mentioned control-freakishness. When I talk about it and comb it out and actively try to understand what’s happening to me I feel a bit more in charge. I have a theory that the days of depression I experience are really just a release of the culminating sadness I experience over a longer period of time. Every single time I look down at my hands and see hers, every time I get the urge to call her before I remember I can’t, every time I look at her picture…the hurt silently snowballs and then rolls over me for a few days until I recover and the process starts all over again. At least that’s what it feels like to me.

So, yeah. That’s all I’ve got for now. My own personal cartography of grieving.

A Motherless Daughter

I'm reading a book Don got me called "Motherless Daughters" and­­--though really, really pertinent and helpful--it is, of course, really, really depressing. I knew before I lost my mom that I would feel the pain for the rest of my life--and reading these stories about women who didn't handle their grief until they got married or had their first child really hits home. One of my first reactions to the news of my mom's grave condition was "how can I ever be a mother without mine?" She was the first person I went to for advice in life and the person who would listen to me as I talked things out (not even offering advice, but just letting me work things out on my own and then cheering me on when I finally did). I always assumed she would be there to answer what still seem like truly daunting questions regarding pregnancy, birth, child-rearing, etc. I made damn sure she was there for my wedding, but I know I will really need her when my time comes to enter motherhood. I live with the understanding that the moment I discover my first pregnancy will be intimately painful because that exciting news will also bring the crushing reminder that I am in it alone. I will, of course, have the best and most supportive partner to experience it with and a plethora of supportive women willing to step in where my mother cannot. This is invaluable to me. But I will still need and want and miss my mother.

Losing your mother is not an event. It isn't something that happens once and is recovered from--it is a state of being. I am, right now, still losing my mother. I am and will forever be a "Motherless Daughter." She will never be on the other end of the line when I need to call for reassurance or guidance or just to shoot the breeze. She won't be there to celebrate my first home purchase. She won't be at the hospital when I have children. She won't make her fudge each Christmas or call me on my birthdays. I may not cry each time one of these milestones (or everyday moments) occurs in the future, but I will recognize her absence and feel it. And mourn it. Forever.

This is truly helpful, the talking about it part. Reading about grief while experiencing grief helps put into context why you’re feeling a certain way or how others might be expecting you to be coping, etc. I’ve realized, and this isn’t surprising to me or to anyone who knows me well, I am blessed with an innate and useful tendency to communicate my feelings. Many people bottle their emotions in times of grief, try to move on quicker than they should, or think that showing pain and sadness weakens them or calls too much attention to them. I have cried in public too many times to count since this whole thing began. I talk to whoever will listen. I tell stories about my mom. I write about her. And I even write to her… In that respect, I am doing alright. And I thank you and everyone who has ever taken the time to lend a compassionate ear, to read my poetry, or to send me a card, text, Facebook message, whatever. It all matters. It all helps.