Those words, ebb and flow, gifted to me by a friend offer a hint of relief as they innocently imply a constant fluctuation. She is alluding to the in and out movement of ocean tides — a perfect metaphor for the dark moods that come over me. A decline and increase. It is true the dark moods come less and less for me as the years pass by.
I hate this day.
I hate the day or two after a I write something like yesterday. (That was a major dumping — discharge — purge.) Though the writing is therapeutic for me on one level, in the sharing of it publicly I am left sitting here alone in my study anxiously worrying that people will think I am a narcissistic, egregiously self-absorbed person. Which I am. Didn’t I just say I want to be my own God?
But the ebb and flow metaphor only barely works because the moon pulls the tides. The tides do not control themselves. The tides are daily, predictable, constant. Are my moods predictable? No. Are they known for their patterns? To some extent, yes. Ironically, as time passes I forget how dismal this mood genuinely is; it is utterly insufferable. God forbid this thing was foreseen!
I had forgotten how bad it feels to slip into the murky place of in-between. I go through the motions. Though some are too difficult, already. I have random thoughts. Do not kill the dog. Cannot make the lunches. I find myself wearing PJs for half the day only because I can’t bear to choose what to wear. I can lean down and pick up book after book from the library bag that has spilled over on the floor. I must bring order so that “they”, the ones I love, don’t have to be afraid. Won’t start to worry. Don’t worry about me I want to say. I resolve not to be anyone’s extra concern. The weight of the day is enough for most people. I sit and listen to my son tell me about aliens and zombies in the book he’s reading. It’s noise. Even though I want to care, because he cares. I can’t get up and make lunches (the task at hand) even though I know I need to make myself engage. I try to pretend the cement is not in my veins.
How’d it happen, this time?
How could I possibly have let this happen? I know. I think. I am absolutely dejected about the future and my lack of purpose and even perhaps my inability to accept the purpose put before me. I am afraid of what others think of me, unless I find a high-powered job or pursue a degree that will puff up my sense of self and be something esteemed by others. I am afraid to enjoy the garden, photography, writing or family!
Should I write the book about my spiritual and psychological journey of healing? Much of it is written here. And I have more than fifty poems. I also have a book of photography waiting for printing. I am frozen and disgusted by my self-pity. And terrified that once again I find myself anxious about the little things (which intellectually I know I can handle.) And even more so, I am wondering if I have the book in me. If these experiences would be worthy to put on the printed page to help others.
For today, all I have is my excuses. My brain, clouded over by this mood, aches. And all I can do today is resolve to get a little exercise, to not isolate, and I shake my fist at the ebb and flow wondering aloud to the One who controls the moon and her tides. What do you want from me?
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