The Crazy Definition of Normal

I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday. And the day before. My hair has not been washed. I did brush my teeth. Daily, even, so I’m not completely gross. Today my goal is to groom. I think I will heat up the sauna and wash in there. When I go back to work next week, I’ll have a schedule that requires my hair and face get washed daily. The armpits can go two days. I will have to wear clean clothes, but the definition of “clean” can be loosely applied. I’m depressed and anxious, with pockets of feeling normal.

Right now, at this moment, I feel normal. I can use that word, because when I’m feeling that way, I know what the feeling is – it’s a feeling that I can get through the day. It’s a feeling that doing the tasks before me is not overwhelming. It means I’m not focused on how to commit suicide or cut my arm off. The pit of horrific lead in my stomach is the size of a kiwi seed, easily ignored, not the size of the Jupitor. It’s how I feel when I’m motivated to create interesting and rigorous lessons for my students. I feel normal enough to know I should change my underwear and wash my hair. Normal is good.

Mostly I’ve been feeling suicidal. Depressed. Anxious. The dog peed on a corner in the kitchen and I walked past it for two days. I got myself in the car to go visit my dad and was unable to sing to the music on my favorite CDs as I was busy imagining taking all the sleeping pills and seroquel in the house. I was pretty sure everyone who knows and loves me would be relieved, because really how long can a loved one put up with worrying that their child/friend/spouse is going to off themselves? I was afraid, briefly, that I would live and Luke would leave me, unable to deal with my mental illness anymore, and I couldn’t blame him. That little fantasy strengthened the resolve to complete the act – be “successful.”

A little voice said, “not today.” I agreed, not today. But the malevolent voice said “it’s only a matter of time. You will kill yourself. The question is when.” It’s tiring. And a little freaky that “normal” consists of feeling like I can get up and shower and keep the suicide at bay long enough to justify not calling 911.

I'm hoping not to bore you readers too long with this depressive episode. I'm hoping at some point I can write about clawing my way out of the hole, inch by agonizing inch, with brilliant flashes of insight illuminating my past and my present. I'm hoping, which is a good sign. But even in hope I hear and believe "it's only a matter of time."