susceptible
e ven the best moods lately (seriously I don’t know how long, now, I want to say forever, or at least all spring, because mood is so perspective-distorting maybe I just mean this weekend) have this little vein of frustration pulsing, that things are almost great, but something is off. just deleted a long post I spent an hour on because re-reading it there was too much self-importance definitiveness which reminds me of going to St. John’s and being told in a conference at the end of the first semester that I needed to unlearn all I had learned in high school about writing an essay, that they didn’t want me to have the arrogance to think I was going to come up with anything new or definitive to say about Plato, that what they wanted was to see some process of me interacting with Plato. We blame this particular conference, by the way, for my endless “it seems to me” positioning myself next to statements with a slightly equivocating glance to see how you’re reacting, if you approve, like those violin lessons that were less about playing the violin than playing my violin teacher’s face — oops, her eyebrows went up, oh dear, ah, now her eyes are closed, chin points, watch the intonation, there I have arrived at that phrase okay. And now it’s so hard to keep my face neutral while my children play. what was I saying? The best moods, the satisfaction of outside-work getting the yard a little less shaggy looking, of soaring down a hill on the bicycle with Aodán right behind me, of hearing one of the boys joking kindly with a younger brother, have only this superficial satisfaction, because, alone after putting them all to bed, I still find myself suppressing the urge to slam things and holler bad words. I want to be around somebody in so great a mood that the great mood rubs off on me, only it seems like grumpiness is more contagious. I promise myself that if I hang in there it will get better, but secretly? I have my doubts.
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It’s always got better before, right? I’ve had what sound lile similar moods recently. I was blaming the weather, but I can’t say the sun is helping all that much. My approach is to keep on with the stuff that feels right (even if it’s difficult) and try to recognize the little things that are actually the most important to the big picture–family, friends, health, love.
The Brujo blames everything on, it’s liver season. But I dunno. My predominant symptoms, other than galloping anhedonia, are mostly a sore throat and an unhealthy obsession with monitoring End of the World class (as in, the last thing I think of before falling asleep, the one thing I think of several times during the night, and the first thing I think of in the morning, i.e. EVERY CONSCIOUS MOMENT. Or even semi-conscious).
Don rags = YEARS OF THERAPY. So traumatic; but why? They were only trying (albeit clusmily) (leaving that typo in) to get you to focus on process, God forgive them (because I still can’t quite, because it took me three years at a women’s college to recover my academic self-esteem).
It’s ridiculous how a sore throat makes it all but impossible to concentrate. Of course I want to read the deleted post more than anything. Because is the writer really the best judge of what’s “self-important”? You’re looking at my eyebrows right now, aren’t you?
I don’t know about better but it will at least get different. I’m absolutely positive of that. That’s the great lie of depression (or whatever), right? It tells you that it always was this way and it always will be this way. That you were just a sucker and a dupe for ever thinking that things could ever be truly great. (Or is that just me?)
I know Portland is nice and all but damn it sometimes I really wish you hadn’t moved! Do you ever think that maybe what you need is just someone to breeze into your day and take care of you? To not accept “No, I’m really doing fine on my own” as an answer and just mother you until you can’t stand it anymore? Because I know that you are really doing more than fine in all the things you manage to keep in the air, singlehandedly most of the time, but sometimes we need to be able to just fall apart and know that there is someone there who has our back. And it’s hard to have your back all the way from Dallas, or at least it is in the making you dinner, finding things to laugh about, getting your groceries kind of way. Because I would drive across Dallas at rush hour and even brave Central Market at Lovers Lane at the dinner hour with all your kids AND mine just to get you your favorite kind of tea and that yummy apricot chicken salad. I love you that much.
@jenny But you can make me cry from more than 2000 miles away, which is almost as good right? Cathartic tears? It’s been another day with Raven gone before the kids were up and not getting back until after they were in bed (train to Seattle and back) and I spent most of it outside which to my amazement did help (plus they will be in bed EARLY, like as soon as I turn off the computer and take them out of the bath) Spent the morning readingSavage Beauty and mostly just envying Millay’s mostly constant state of being taken care of, but do I remember ever seeing my mother being taken care of? No. The deleted blog entry was “What’s Self-Knowledge Ever Done for Me?” and it’s funny, right? that you know me enough better than I know myself to recognize the need pulsing as frustration is just not to be responsible for keeping it all from crashing down hard right now?
@adam, you’re right of course. It even helps to know that other people do struggle. We will have to do campfire camp or (let me learn a few more chords on the banjo) a um, bluegrass jam session or something to celebrate the return of the Portland sun.
@unreliable Don’t know about liver season. But this has been the semester to survive and from here it looks like you’ve done better than that. And if your students need years of therapy it won’t be because of don rags, at least. Hope your throat is better soon.
Since I am roughly equidistant between Portland and Dallas, I will set the table—Jenzai, you bring the apricot chicken salad, and Mara, you bring your banjo. Woohoo TEA PARTY woooo!
Ignore me, this is just the antihistamine talking.
“Shantih shantih shantih”
PS is soooomeone reading Jane Yolen???
From July, I will carry a flag for you all, and hope to picnic under Portland skies with Mara!
Echoing the Om, shantih, shantih, shantih.