Ogden Nash wrote, “Nothing is glummer than a cold in the summer.” Well, I can think of one thing glummer: depression. I haven’t posted for over a month because I’ve been battling another cycle of depression, and writing about it seemed indulgent, particularly in light of the profound challenges and responsibilities of readers of this blog. And then, of course, Dayton and El Paso.
But Adrienne said, “Write, anyway. You need to write it out for yourself.” So through the fog, I’ll attempt to write what I need to write. Keep in mind that the world of depression is a closed world, a world with its own irresistible logic. I can look in the mirror and think, “Loser.” You can look at me and think, “Beautiful.” I listen, and immediately think, “You’re blind.”
In my journal, I made a list of 12 things that, looking back, have precipitated this latest dip. Following are four.
My knees ache all the time and a recent MRI on the right knee indicates “Advanced tricompartmental osteroarthrosis, with tricompartmental regions of high-grade to full thickness cartilage loss.” In other words, my right knee is deteriorating like my left one which was diagnosed “severely arthritic,” three years ago. Yesterday, I received walking sticks I ordered to take weight off of the knees on my daily walks. In my living room, I tried to use them and couldn’t stop crying. “I’m old, I’m old,” is a constant refrain.
My 15-year-old dog pal, Sydney, was euthanized the last week of July. It took me at least four months to befriend her about three years ago. She was a rather vicious guard dog, but eventually, I won her over, or maybe she won me over. The last time I saw her alive was in the middle of July. I knew she wasn’t long for this world. I held biscuits under her mouth and told her that she was a wonderful gift to the world. “And never forget it, okay?” She could barely stand.
The suffering and challenges of beloveds also leave me helpless and raising an angry first to God. “Why them and not the current occupant of the White House?” I don’t get and don’t expect an answer.
Last I’m weary of how difficult it is for me to maintain a presence in my memoir stories. The shadow of my mother looms forever large. Defiant, I keep pecking away, word by word, but much of the time, her voice overwhelms.
Yesterday, I read a quote from Toni Morrison (rest in peace), that summed up the work of my life: “If you wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.” This summer, I’m realizing that it will truly take me a lifetime to fly.
Post featured image: Sunset, June 28.
I read your post very early this morning and have been thinking about it constantly since. My heart is breaking for the battle you are enduring. Depression can feel so incredibly lonely. But, Sharie, you are not alone. So many of your family and friends love you and care for you. Truly, they do. It may feel like it will take you a lifetime to fly. But having the courage to share your feelings so open and honestly is flying. I’m right there beside you holding your hand. We can fly together. I love you. xoxoxo
Sharon, I thank you for sharing the way you do. Your realness (< my favorite refrain from Billy Porter on “Pose”) always inspires me, even when you feel despondently uninspired. You are right, I see “beautiful” when you see “loser.” And yet, that line is so important to those of us who want to help our friends and family who suffer from cratering depression. When you share your soul, my hope is that you feel less alone. Isolation is only effective with treating contagious disease. And that quote from Toni Morrison – wow – simplicity and complexity right there in one true phrase.
I love you.
Taking a 5 minute break from packing up. Just want you to know I read your post and like all your other dear friends, I am sending you love and also reporting, “Yes you are beautiful and I have always experienced you as flying.” Thanks for writing and for being real and human. It is your gift.
I am sorry for your cratering depression and only wish that I could take it from you. I have written some of this in a snail mail card to you today, but figure it could only benefit you to read/hear it more than once. At least it will not harm. This is truth. I do not have good vision but I am NOT blind. Stiff knees aside, looking at or considering you, this is what I see:
1. A woman in great physical shape – height/weight/muscle tone/GREAT legs!
2. An active woman, walking over five miles a day. (I know 20-year-olds who cannot do that.)
3. A woman who has aged more gracefully than most of her high school class (and many others your age!)
4. A brilliant and creative mind which fires and soars like a rocket when not smothered by the blanket of depression.
5. An unparalleled loyal and loving friend.
6. And SO MUCH MORE!
Almost everyday I am reminded in one way or another that I am getting old, so each day I tell myself that it beats the alternative, which has been the fate for an increasing number of my friends. At this point in life, I remind myself that even the perils of aging are a blessing, because I am still here in this world with my beloveds.
I am sorry for your pain, but thanks for your honesty. It helps us all to be more honest about what we are holding and facing right now.
Dear, dear Sharon Friend, your honesty is so courageous. I hope you have some glimmer of the reality of that. You are courageous! Every day you get up and walk, in spite of the load of darkness hovering around you and in spite of the pain in your knees. Every day you sit and write, in spite of the overwhelming noise of your mother’s voice. And isn’t that overwhelming noise precisely what is at the center of your story? It’s that voice you are playing over and over again in each of your chapters. But it’s not only that voice. It’s also Your Voice of courage and strength, interpreting, and yes, interrupting(!), and overcoming(!), your mother’s voice and power over you.
Your pictures on this post are so beautiful. They do mirror the beauty so many of us see in your soul!
It is hard for those of us who don’t suffer from depression to fully understand how deep the pain goes. However, being around you, I realized that you did mask some of the pain you are experiencing and held back in this post. It’s not an easy topic to write or read.
Exploring photography is a new form of expression for you. I encourage you to continue to find the beauty. Continue to use and build upon your creativity. Something that consistently brings you joy and satisfaction.