In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Roy G. Biv.”
Someone posted recently a phrase i keep trying to remember –
Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I’m scared because I don’t have an answer.
I’m depressed. My mind sees those words as a big, red warning sign of things to come. See, I don’t mean that I’m not feeling great because it’s the Monday Blues, but rather hopefully something will happen and tomorrow won’t be an issue. Joking about this only helps to ease the tension so that making a statement like “I think I’m going to cross those yellow lines on the highway without the aid of a car. Maybe Human Frogger?” doesn’t end with me being sedated.
Last night the nurse brought me some orange juice to wash down yet another series of pills that are supposedly going to elongate my time on this side of the green grass. The simple gesture of touching my shoulder, just asking if I would like her to come back later and talk was enough to remind me how far down the rabbit hole I have gone. That shield I have erected to protect others from what is going on, it crumbled for a minute. And I found that I was sobbing on the shoulder of this poor woman, soaking her indigo shirt until I couldn’t breathe any longer.
Depression is par for the course when dealing with cancer. Too many what-ifs for certain types. And yet I still haven’t gotten angry about any of it. Not why me? Nor how could this happen? Some portion of my screwed up, chemically controlled brain thinks it deserves what is going on. That in itself is a dangerous thought. I’m not crying for the pain to go away, I’m crying because I believe it’s my price to pay for well, being me.
I made a choice a while back, let people think I’m the monster someone was calling me because it was easier than any other path. Tell people that I had screwed up so badly that I was struggling to find a fix was the only way I thought I could help someone else. “Hey, why is your mother so angry with Lary?” It was the simplest answer, tell them I had money issues and was trying everything I knew to fix them. It wasn’t an absence of pride that made me do that, but rather showing that I was brave enough to admit I couldn’t fix things. The problem with that was to someone it made me look weak, unable to care for another in the eyes of the very person I had sought help from.
Pointing people towards the information so they could look for themselves. Draw their own conclusion, make a choice for themselves about what they read; it was all I had left. Don’t take my word, look at what the documents state. I always tried to do that with someone, only her mother made it sound like I was hiding things because she didn’t know. Hard to argue with, “Hey here’s this letter talking about the problem. I wanted you to know.” I guess I was supposed to fax a copy to her mother as well?
The sad part, according the the therapist, is that I don’t think any differently than the picture my ex’s mother has painted of me. Just a pathetic guy would couldn’t do what she expected, those violet shades of anger filling her face as she clutches her fist at me. Why does that still hurt? Oh yeah, I think of her as being a second mother. [yes that’s present tense. Can’t explain that one though!] So it was as if my own mother had told me how disappointed she was, only this time she took away more than my car keys. She got my self-respect as well.
I started this off by admitting I’m depressed. Anyone who has read the postings I have made over the past 6 months can tell that. It’s a struggle. But there is something others can do about it. Go hug someone in your life. Just for no reason at all, walk up to them and hug them. Maybe the person down the hall just needs to see someone smile at them, it could be just the thing that gets them away from the dangerous thoughts depression can bring. Remember to say “Thank you” to the person who hands you that cup of coffee. They seem like small things, but I promise you to someone who needs to hear them, it could change everything.