Posts tagged: depression
Another Sunday is ebbing away. Warm, windy and overcast; another cold front is due for South Florida.
The past few days have been awful: depressed and hungry. At one point, I couldn’t even cry, just couldn’t find the tears. A scary sensation: the feeling, not of being in a black hole, but of being a black hole. Of being void, hollow—nothing.
And as for the hunger—this was the hunger of a very scant pantry stretched to its absolute limit. This probably also aggravated my mood, what with the dip in blood sugar and the lack of serious protein, fats, and nutrients.
No doubt some thinspirationist would say, “good for you, you don’t need to eat.” But let me be perfectly clear: I am not, and never will be, a fan of anything even remotely diet-related, let alone pro-ana or pro-mia. And I do need to eat. I like to eat. I like to cook, and to share food with others. Believe you me, it does warm my heart to stand in the kitchen and roast vegetables, marinate mushrooms, prep a chicken for roasting, etcetera…and it kills me not to have the wherewithal to do so.
Rant aside, I did get some more writing done. And I’ve tucked into several books, too. So, for the moment, my secret sharer (depression) is quiet. As they say, it’s a day at a time,
I’m a mixed bag at the moment.
Yesterday was one of those days where I wanted to cry, laugh, and curl up into a ball. I’m still feeling the impact.
The Coral Gables Cultural Council held a meeting, so I went to see and hear. Strolled and window-shopped, came home, changed clothes, and went off to the library.
After I left, I went to Books and Books, where the Coral Gables Democratic Club was meeting. Talked to a couple of people with Occupy Miami, listened to several speakers—among them Alex Sink, ran into Grisel S. from my days at LACC. She gave me her card.
And somewhere along the way, the frustration over being jobless, combined with grief and PTSD flashbacks, steamrolled me. It was a wonder I didn’t hurl myself onto the parquet and start wailing. I ran into Jonathan Rose and Liz, and they helped me chill. Also got an offer to volunteer for a mayoral candidate race, met several more interesting people…
I wanted to stay in bed this morning. But I had to remind myself what was going down tonight (I read at Books & Books, at the Famous Last Friday poetry night) and got up, fed Ten-Ten, and got out to check my email.
I’m nervous and jumpy and I still feel like laughing and crying all at once. Forgive me for unburdening. I just need to know I’m heard.
I promise not to bore y’all with the drag and drabness of my latest depression.
Let’s just say: the past week has gone at a crawl. I’ve transcribed some more work for Set List, but I still feel like I’m trawling a molasses river. And I know that I need to call Williams-Sonoma, if only to confirm that I’m not working there, and to schedule my second mock-MCAT test for The Princeton Review.
And I have enjoyed some lovely outings, too; the writers’ salon at Books & Books (great fun, and a good spark source); the gallery exhibits on Friday night; evening walks in this breezy weather. (If I had a kite, I’d probably look for an open field and fly it.)
It’s just, well, a challenge to shake off the lassitude, the sluggishness that dogs me these days. Thankfully, I have not had to scrape the cupboard for food, and my dear friend O. has given me the chance to eat vegan pasta (three cheers for tofu!) and Cuban-style paella (would you believe I’d never eaten paella?). I’ve gotten calls and visits from Carmen K. and Denise A., and people sending encouraging words. I almost feel like an ingrate for not immediately rallying to instant cheer. By the same token, I don’t feel like lying to myself, or to others, about being fine.
The coming week will find me looking over the script for St. George’s Christmas pageant; I have a kid in mind for the role of the announcer—very lively, and articulate. Will also spend time on the hoof, not to mention on the poems. I don’t see myself splashing out on Christmas presents, but then again, I don’t really dig the holly jolly hype…
I’m a bit shocked that November’s almost done.
Shocked, too, that I am still behind the curve on my transcriptions for Set List. I couldn’t quite make my deadline, so I’m giving myself an extension for December—the 15th is my new target deadline. Since the Colorado contest calls for a minimum of 48 pages, I need to count pages, and will more than likely add more material.
Work-wise: I took the first mock MCAT Verbal last week. Wasn’t as frightening as I thought it would be, but getting there was daunting, and the test was not exactly a Mickey Mouse. Still, it was gratifying to get an average of 5/8 on the test. I hadn’t heard from Williams-Sonoma—that was a bit of a downer. (Yes, I need to schedule a second test, and pester W-S, I know…)
The fatigue, coupled with the holiday blahs, spilled into depression—I didn’t feel it on Thanksgiving itself (which was lovely & quiet) so much as over the weekend, especially from Saturday on. Saturday and yesterday, I didn’t even get out of my pj’s—just vegetated. Were it not for the fact that I had to get up today, I suspect that I probably would have hibernated.
What scares me about this round is how matter-of-fact, how unremarkable it is: no tears, no outbursts. Just a cold sort of silence. It’s the waiting for shoes to drop, the suspense, that gets me.
Downs aside, the week is eventful: Art Basel begins on Thursday, and First Friday promises to be very energetic. (Especially since the lighting of the Christmas Tree in front of Coral Gables City Hall dovetails…) There’s a writer’s salon at Books & Books tomorrow evening, and I do look to attend.
That said, this winter looks to be anything but dull. Stay tuned.
I surprised myself this morning: I woke up and left the house before eight.
Oh, it was for a good cause: a breakfast at Books & Books, where I met and greeted many interesting people. (I would have handed out cards, but I’d chucked the ones I had…wrong address, phone, et cetera.) After, I hung for a little while, then crossed to the Colonnade, where Telemundo was setting up to film Maid In America—a brand-new telenovela. I ducked into the former Norman’s 180 space, where some of the extras were chatting, and followed them, taking a couple of snaps on my phone.
After that, I went to Barnes & Noble, then to St. George. Sadly, Father Peter was not there, so I took the next trolley to Merrick Park. Swung by Williams-Sonoma and Anthropologie—only to come away frustrated. (I should have called before going by.)
Spent a couple of hours at the Library, then made the trek back to Planet Linux, with books in hand.
Didn’t work on Set List today. Was debating adding another section, and calling it “Encore.” As it was, I had only one notebook—my last excuse there.
My depression has lifted somewhat; it has not, however, vanished. I don’t expect that I shall ever be 100% depression-free. That’s all right. Life is, simply, too intricate and rich to be flattened into a happy vacancy.
Thanks to a very kind friend, I finally got my cell back in action. Now I have to phone another friend, and let him know the situation with the rent…I could laugh at myself for thinking that one problem solved means all problems solved. Just so, at least now I can call back the places where I’ve applied for work. Small mercy maybe, but still a mercy.
On my way to MetroPCS, I saw a wild horde of cameras, vans, and the like by the Westin Colonnade. As it turned out—Telemundo was shooting scenes for a telenovela there. Kind of exciting, actually—unless, that is, you were working there, or trying to check in.
I caught myself wondering who I would have to talk to, in order to snag a part as an extra. Sadly, the office creature at the elevator (a stunning redhead in violet, wearing glasses) was not interested in idle chitchat. I walked away, thinking, well, a simple fuck off would have sufficed…
If anyone has ever tried to sign up for a medical study—perhaps you can appreciate the irony of answering questions for a study on depression, only to find that one does not match the criteria! (Good grief…)
I’m nearly finished with the Montefiore, and am looking forward to hearing him read at Temple Judea. I’ve started rereading the Nick Drake bio, Darker Than the Deepest Sea: the Search for Nick Drake. Trevor Dann’s book is a wonderful glimpse into the life and death of a great singer.
What’s on your reading list lately? Pass it forward, if you like.
Let me be perfectly blunt here. I’m depressed. I have been for several days now. I’ve no idea how long it will last; I’ve no doubt, though, that I will work out ways to laugh, crack a joke (or 20), spin a good yarn, unleash some bon mots… I’ve been here before, and at this time in my life, depression looks less like a monster and more like some fleeting figure in a movie—one sees the shadow, maybe catches a glimpse, but the presence remains, silent and somber.
This weekend was a long one, punctuated with a belated birthday dinner, marvelous converse over red velvet cupcakes and red wine, tears, frustration, and lots of reading.
Not to mention—plenty of art. First Friday was nothing, if not a whirlwind of galleries, special events, live music, and rain. And yes, I got caught in more than one torrential that night. But it was worth getting sozzed, to see the exhibits at Cuatro Art Space and Cernuda Arte. I was also quite gobsmacked by the showing at The Americas Collection—if they can draw in art lovers at their current location (off Andalusia and Ponce), I can only wonder at the droves that will fill their future space, in the Merrick Park area. Over at Domingo Padron, in addition to an exhibit of primitive-style paintings by Pedro Blanco Aroche, aka “Pelly,” they had a cigar roller making puros at a table. The place smelled of tobacco: pungent, warm, a little spicy. It reminded me of being at my great-grandmother’s house, and how she smoked hand-rolled cigarettes.
Having said all that I have, it would ease my mind a bit, not to be financially pinched. It couldn’t hurt, anyhow.
My mother’s death day came and went. It was quiet, and actually, pretty drama-free. If I could have, I would have fixed boliche, rice and red beans, and yuca, as a memorial meal: she would have loved it. But, as money was (and still is) tight…
The next day, however, sent me into a funk—a very persistent one, at that. I just wanted to vanish! Getting out of bed, making it, dressing, eating, washing—doing any of these things became closer to Herculean. Still, Friday found me at St. George for Compline, which was good.
Sunday was a soup/salad luncheon after Liturgy; brought bean dips and donned an apron, to help serve. (I brought home soup, salad, and fruit—thankfully it all fit in my bag!)
Denise A., who sings with me in the choir, asked me to join her at a short concert up in Miami Shores. So, last night, we sang for a small group at a lovely Presbyterian church—enjoyable, and we had corned beef and cabbage for dinner afterward.
It’s frustrating, to know that last night was sweet, and it’s gorgeous today, and yet…
—Andrew Solomon (b. 1963); from The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, p. 133.
For anyone who is dealing with depression—or has a loved one dealing with it—I highly recommend this book.
