Posts Tagged ‘guilt’

depression

It didn’t happen all at once.

The pieces seemed small and unrelated–a quilt that hadn’t yet been sewn to make a cohesive thing.

I couldn’t leave the house without makeup.

I didn’t know it was one thing. I chalked it up to the move, to my new job, to my sudden weight gain and physical discomfort.

I watched the scale tip slowly toward a number I’d never seen before, packed bags of too-small shorts for the thrift store, ordered secret clothes online and hid them in my closet.

It seemed like a myriad of things–a response to stressful life circumstances.

I cringed at the bling sound of texts, the flood of my inbox, looking at my calendar would send my stomach into knots and my heart racing.

It never occurred to me to call it something. It never dawned on me that my behavior was becoming distant, dissonant, even to me. My sense of identity, of belonging, my sense of self.

I would fantasize about cancelling engagements, come up with lies to get out of meals, shows, dinners, walks, trips. I didn’t want to see or be seen.

It didn’t manifest in a day–it slowly came over me, covering me like a heavy quilt until I felt cradled by it, enveloped by it, identified with it, as it.

I’d talk about wanting to get better but sink into self-doubt and confusion trying to name what I needed to get better from.

Friends started commenting on my inability to sit still–a paper was misplaced and needed to be straightened, a crumb was in sight and needed to be swept.

I stayed up at night–every creak of our old house sent shivers down my spine. I knew it was an intruder. I scanned the room for objects that could be used as weapons. I slept with the bathroom light on.

It never occurred to me that my growing social anxiety and paranoia could be related. That my low self-esteem and my desire to binge-watch t.v. could be interconnected. Pain masked by habit, fear disregarded as a side-effect.

I knew people with depression. That wasn’t me.

I’m a normal person. I exist in this world with the same number of problems as anyone else, probably less. I’ve got a great partner, a wonderful kid, a job I like.

 

work // past

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

hell is a hospital bed in sacramento // past

“Take her to the hospital!” I shouted to the bumbling attendant on the other side of the too-white desk. “She’s really sick. Just take her, for god’s sake. You sent her to the fucking ER when she fell out of her chair. A distance of, like, one and a half feet.”

“That’s policy, ma’am. We call in every fall…”

“That can hardly be counted as a fall,” I interrupted. “She scooted off her chair. Whatever, I don’t care about that right now. She’s really sick now. I can’t believe you haven’t sent her to the doctor. She doesn’t sound right. She can hardly breathe, she’s not eating. What is wrong with you? She’s coughing but it sounds like something is stuck in her chest. She is NOT OKAY! Take her to the hospital!”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down. If you feel as though she needs to go to the hospital, you can call 911. At your expense. Or, find a way to get her there yourself,” She said with steely eyes trained on my quivering lips. I could feel my pulse, my heart racing, my stomach turning. Why hadn’t I just borrowed a car? Why didn’t I ask my friend to wait while I checked on my mom before she drove off? I knew she wasn’t well. I should have come in to figure out what was going on before letting her drive off, leaving me–us, stranded.

“May I please use the phone?” I asked calmly. The attendant was whispering to another staff member. Why hadn’t we put her in a place with nurses and doctors? Why did we think she needed this make-believe, hotel-resort? It was a sham but it seemed like the right place at the time. All the nursing facilities were cold and too bright and too sterile. They smelled like shit and clorox. No character, no charm. This place looked like the Four Seasons. Fresh flowers, carpets, thick curtains and elevator music everywhere. Even a small, enclosed outdoor space where mom could get some sun, smell some flowers, look at the clouds. It seemed so perfect. It seemed so much better than the other places. It felt like the obvious, though regrettably most expensive, choice.

Now, it felt like a beautiful prison. A stupid, fucking facade filled with incompetent people doing whatever they were told. Nothing more. My mom was a body, a bed, a mouth, a dirty diaper. Nothing more.

“Hey, Rach? Can you come back?” I sniffled into the cream-colored phone, twisting the spiral cord between my fingers. “Yeah. I need you to take us to the hospital. My mom’s really sick and these assholes won’t take her.” The two women in white glared at me for a moment, then seemed to forget or lose interest and walk away.

My mom was frail by then. No more than ninety pounds. All five feet, nine inches of her reduced to nothing. She just looked at me. Pleading with her eyes. Sad, quiet. Spit pooling at her chin. She would cough and I’d tell her to keep coughing–pound her back, rub her chest–in the hopes that something meaningful would come out and the gasping would stop. It was just a long, never-ending string of spittle. I pulled at it and wiped at the creases of her mouth, holding the gooey drops in my palms. She was feverish and chilled and pale. Dark grey circles framed her giant, unblinking eyes. She looked like a skeleton. A shadow.

“Pneumonia,” the doctor had said after the chest x-ray. “It’s good you got her here when you did. It’s quite advanced. A lot of fluid in her lungs. And she’s dehydrated so we’ll start an iv immediately,” he explained. “Also, you’ll need to begin adding a thickening agent to her liquids if she’s going to be drinking on her own. It’s entirely possible she did this to herself, it looks like aspiration pneumonia.”

I pinched myself. Squeezed my fists until my fingernails drew blood from the soft skin of my bare palms. I felt the shame building in the back of my throat. Felt the tears pooling behind my lids. Fuck. I knew she was sick. I should have come yesterday. Or the day before, I thought. I should have been there. Why am I working these stupid shifts at the restaurant all day and the bar all night? What is it for? So I can pay rent for my shitty room in a shitty apartment in the middle of fucking nowhere? Meanwhile, my mom is dying sixty miles away. Why did I even move back? I wondered. What was the point. What good was I actually doing?

I laid down next to her in the stiff hospital bed. I pulled the white sheet up to our chins and played peek-a-boo. I fed her bites of hospital pizza and ate her rejected, drool-covered pieces. When was the last time I ate, I wondered. We turned on the television: daytime soaps and game shows. She smiled at me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I spooned small scoops of chocolate pudding onto her tongue. She licked at it, like a house cat and nodded in approval.

It took them five tries and three different nurses but they finally managed an iv. They only blew up her vein twice. Ballooned up and out into her skin, all blue and purple. I nearly fainted. I’ve seen a lot, I’ve been through a lot. But, I have never felt so immediately woozy. The fluids helped bring her back a bit. She let her eyelids fall, half closed. She rested her head on mine.

I am a terrible child, I thought. I let the tears slide, silently down my face. Let them gather and fall onto my chest. Let them pool and grow together. A salty pond to wade in, to remind me that I am not whole. I am nothing. I’m always a step behind, a moment too late. It’s never enough. It never will be.

parenting

I made dinner twice this week and felt like a total badass. It’s easier right now since I only work until 5:00 — then I pick my kid up from daycare and it takes us at least an hour to get home because we HAVE to stop by the playground and go on the RED swing and we ABSOLUTELY MUST smell every flower and jump in every puddle on the walk home — I’m not sure how we’ll eat once my schedule shifts to a 7:00 end time. Yikes.

Anyhow, yes, parenthood is a swift kick in the ego. And the stomach-hips-ass area, am I right?! I’m going to try and get to the gym more than, never, starting next week when I decrease to 3 days/week.

I used to be so judgmental of parents who had nannies especially when they were home for some of the time. Now, I’m like, hell yeah. Sign me up. Otherwise it’s constant multi-tasking and constantly dividing your attention and half-assing everything and feeling guilty because the house is a mess, or feeling guilty because you’re not giving your kid enough attention. And, oy. It’s just a lot of guilt.

I really do love it. And, it’s getting easier by the day, thank gods. But, let’s just acknowledge that parenting is not easy if you’re doing it right.

truth // past

“Where is she, where is she?” I wondered silently. She was always doing this. “Why can’t anything in my life be normal?” I murmured inaudibly.

It was half past six. Volleyball practice ended at five. Courtney’s mom had offered to wait with me until my mom arrived. This was a reoccurring predicament. I’d stay after school for something — volleyball, cheerleading, theater, track and field, chorus — anything to not be at home, and then I’d wait for two hours to get picked up. “This is what I get for not taking the bus,” I thought.

“Oh, there she is. There’s my mom,” I said, relieved. This was how it happened. Either someone would wait with me until she arrived or I would lie and tell them that she would be there in a few minutes and I’d wait alone. Ducking behind the payphone whenever a set of headlights came by. I could never decide what was worse — waiting there, terrified and alone in the dark, or having an adult wait with me asking too many questions.

“Oh, good,” she said. I recognized her tone — it reeked of disdain and irritation. “And, who’s the lady with her?” she continued, as though she were asking whether I wanted chocolate or caramel on my ice-cream. Sweet. Innocent-like.

“No one. I mean, that’s just a friend. Of my moms,” I lied.

“Right. And…where’s your dad? Does he ever pick you up? I’ve never seen him. What’s his name?”

“Um, he’s…his name is…I mean, he isn’t here.”

“Oh. I see,” she continued. “And, don’t you have sisters?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Brothers too? How many? Courtney said something about you having a lot of siblings.”

“Um, I don’t know. I mean, sort of.  I gotta go. Bye! Thanks for waiting with me!”

///////

The caravan door slid open, making a high-pitched squeak as it halted half way. I squeezed in, breathless. “Courtney’s mom asked me,” I paused to catch my breath. “about my sisters and brothers again.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just said I didn’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? What kind of an answer is that?”

“I don’t know. I just said, like, ‘no’, but then I said, like, ‘sort of.'”

“You can’t say that! You can’t say anything! What are you thinking, goshdangit.”

“I told you she shouldn’t be allowed to do after-school activities,” my mom’s “friend” chimed in. I glared at her.

“Mom, I, I , no one knows anything. She just said she knew I had brothers. It’s okay. She doesn’t…”

“Gosh darn-it-all. You can’t say that stuff. You can’t,” my mom yelled. She was starting to tap her foot. She always tapped her foot, a little three-part pattern, when she was nervous.

“This is why we homeschool. Public schools are trouble. Too many eyes. Too many ears. He says it could be our downfall. Just because your children want to go to school and play sports shouldn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer. Are you listening?” My mom was listening. But, she knew I needed to be in school. She knew I couldn’t stay home like my brothers and sisters. I couldn’t stand to be there for one night, let alone day after day. I joined everything. Anything. I spent weekends at friends houses. Weeknights even. Lord knows what they thought was going on. “You won’t be the favorite forever,” she murmured under her breath. “Then there’ll be hell to pay.”

“No, please. I didn’t…Mom. I just…I don’t know what to…I’m trying to do what you told me to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please. Please let me stay in school. Please. I won’t say anything.”

“If they found out we would all be in big trouble. Do you want that? Your dad would go to jail and we would have nowhere to live. Do you want that to happen?” my mom asked.

“No.”

“Okay, then. So, you’ll tell her you were confused. Tell her that you have one sister and two brothers and that’s it. The rest of the kids just live with us. We took them in. Single mothers and their children.”

“Ha!” my mom’s friend interjected.

“We run a church. A non-profit” my mother continued.

“A nompromfi? What’s that?” I asked.

“A NON-profit. A non-profit. Say it out loud.”

“A NON-profit.”

“Good. Okay. So, you’ll tell her that when you see her tomorrow. And, Courtney too. Just tell everyone that. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” I whispered. “Okay, mom. I’ll tell them tomorrow.”