not for me

For the past couple of weeks I have been scanning pictures of my grandchildren and posting them to facebook albums. The comments from viewing friends have varied from a simple like to a big omg. The responses from the gc have made me laugh, and a couple of times, cry.

Truth be told, most days I’m never very far away from tears. Depression is ever present and some mornings it’s all I can do just to get out of bed. Oh, I get up, all right, kitty is relentless, and if I don’t respond to his initial attempts, with a gentle paw on my face and a “mom mom mom” from his hungry maw, then he goes on to other methods, all of them involving something that will without doubt get my attention. First, usually, he hops up onto the bookcase headboard and tickles me with his tail. If that doesn’t work he leaps to the bedside table and proceeds to knock over anything that’s not nailed down, particularly relishing the resultant crashes as items hit the floor. And if that doesn’t work, he lays down across my feet and (not too) gently nips my toes. By then I’m usually inspired (?) enough to kick off the covers and stumble to the kitchen, mindful of course that he’s dogging my footsteps as I trudge the length of the house.

But once he’s fed, the predawn envelopes me and I have to make some decisions about how I’m going to handle the rest of the day. I’ve learned not to turn on the television, because in the weeness of the morning the newscasts focus on either the terrible or the terribly mundane, both of which serve only to heighten my sense of unease. Listening to my best deejay is better, but barely. And yet the silence of the house is the least fave, because alone is bad but alone with my thoughts is awful.

Before the accident there were always good days and bad days but for the most part the good outweighed the bad. Since the accident, I experience way more of the latter. And when the memory hits, it’s a six flags ride and all a downward spiral. Trauma is trauma, however it comes into your life. Going back to bed is not an option, because dreams are almost as bad as reality. A pill might make things better but what do you do when the dose wears off? I understand why some people start the day with a drink or a drug, needing something, anything, to numb the woulda coulda shouldas. But neither is viable for me. And so the darkness closes in and the voices in my head sing the dread refrain. I was an ugly evil child. I was a bad wife. I was a horrible mother. Mistakes are always remembered and never truly forgiven. All the lights in the house turned on do nothing to assuage the bile in my gut. And there is no wounded warrior program for me.