Sunday, May 13, 2007

Happy Mother's Day

Yeah, it's one of those jacked up, man-made super-commercialized holidays, but it has it's perks. My Sun brought home a funny book/card he made for me in school on Friday, all about me and the things he liked about me. He liked me because I was "nis" and that I take him to Toys R Us in Times Square, and he though I was "nis" because "we eat hot dogs". It's the little things, you know? The night we came home and I made salad and hot dogs... he loved that. Those moments are the "fireflies" in my life. I guess it made up for the fact that the Tooth Fairy completely forgot to put money under his pillow Tuesday morning, and when he woke up he burst into tears. Never mind the fact that he knows I'm the tooth fairy. (That same day, he went to school and lost his other tooth, which he thought was something in his sandwich so he threw it out. But that night the Tooth Fairy remembered and put $5 under his pillow, for both teeth. She left a note that saying that she was sorry she was late, and that she'd been stuck in traffic. I thought that was funny.)

In the card, one page says "Thank you mom for...." and he wrote "my life". "Mom, you are the greatest...." and he filled in "Mom in the worll". It doesn't get much better than that.

The Peeps came up and were all pretty mellow, considering. I made grilled chicken breasts, and laid out all kinds of salad ingredients, so there was lots of healthy food so nobody carped about anything and everyone had enough :). I was quite pleased with myself. The big treat was that I'd gone and gotten a nice light white wine, Villa Antinori. Shoefly tasted it on her trip to Italy; she'd gone to the vineyard. I'm not a big wine drinker, especially not white (I much prefer harder libations), but this was good. And a glass and good food and the love of family helped a little.

It was a long night the night before. The voices raged all night like a colicky baby. Not screaming about anything in particular, just rage and hurt and railing against What Is. And like the parent of a colicky baby, there's not much you can do but whisper "shhhh baby, shhhhh" and pace the floor and ride it out. This morning, tired and worn out, they whimpered but weren't saying much.

In the shower (where I have most of my Deep Thoughts) I realized that Depression is much like being constipated. You know that a good dump (or crying jag) would relieve the pressure and the bloat, but it's all bound up in there and you can't let it go. And sometimes you're all bound up for no particular reason. Stress, maybe. Something you ate. I know it will pass, at some point. On the Depression scale, where "10" is Happy and "1" is Suicide Watch, I guess I hover around "7". "6" would require small amounts of alcohol, "5" requires large amounts of alcohol (been there, done that), "4" requires pharmaceuticals, 3 and 2 require serious pharmacology. I've never gone much past 5, tho sometimes I wondered.

There's been much discussion about the Voices, lately, since I've ratted them out. The Flowerchild admitted to them tonight, but I knew all along she had them. She reminds me very much of me. Which is unfortunate. But she might already be ahead of me, so maybe she'll get a handle on things before I did. For instance, having learned about slavery and the injustices of America, she's in the "hate whitey" phase, at 12. I didn't hit that phase till I was 19. She's also well into the "standing up against injustice, no matter your personal cost" phase, and I also didn't hit that phase until much later. A teen, definitely. Problem with that phase is I never quite came out of it.

Which leads me back to part of why I've been struggling. I hate when I fall short of my own expectations. But I *really* hate when I allow myself to think that I will be pleasantly surprised and find that someone will surpass my expectations. And then they don't... they do exactly what the voices told me they'd do. It's just so disappointing. And it hurts each and every time, no matter how many times I tell myself "well you knew it was a snake when you picked it up".

Just once, I'd like to be wrong. Just once, I'd like to feel that someone will pick up the sword when I'm too tired to fight, and fight like I fight. Or say they're going to tell me the truth, and then actually tell me the truth. But they rarely do. And yeah, I've got to let that idea go, I know. But allow me my moment...

The thing is, I *have* to believe in the good, in love. I have to hope. Because if I don't what then? The darkness would close me in.

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