Well, here we are. Or here I am. I'm not so sure about you.
This blog begins on a note of depression and tremendous change, which, I suppose, is as good a place as any to start. The depression is annoying and so, so cold. The change is terrifying, exhilarating and, at times, ultimately confusing. Life building is hard, did you know? I sure didn't.
It is Sunday night, the eve of the eve of an impending Snowpocalypse. I find myself longing for the tiny little shoebox by the sea that I used to live in...drafty walls that smelled of salt, wool blankets the color of the winter sky that scratched bare arms, the ding of a toaster oven for the week's 14th English muffin with tomato and cheese melted on top. It was a perfect place to watch the snow.
From the second floor, you could see Commercial Street just below. The snow fell and was pushed by the ocean wind, resulting in a swirl that fell in all directions. The noise was delicious, a symphony that Poseidon himself was sure to delight in, a cacophony of waves and the rush of winter air. The only space for a bed was in the air, so small was the room. A loft bed to sleep in, so close to the window that if you stepped diagonally off the ladder, your foot would be liable to go through the glass. Everything about living there was hard, in its way. No space, no stove and, at times, no heat. Everything about living there was also beautiful. The wind. The air. The conversations that the house seemed to have with itself, daily. Creaking floorboards, breezy stairways, porches holding space for springtime, when the artists could return and the music could once again be loud.
The morning after the storm was the best. The darkness gone, the wind ushering year-rounders out into the town on cross country skis. Skiing by the sea...the waves just 20 feet away. Who would have thought of such a thing? Yes. I suppose I miss it. Finally. It took a long time.
I have landed in a drastically different location. There is no sea, but there are great and wonderful trees, with rivers that run through the woods and though the wind smells different, it is still here. Sometimes I think I can smell the Atlantic. The big question nowadays is whether depression and change go hand in hand. I think that there is certainly a strong case for that argument, though the jury in my noggin has yet to make up its mind. Here is what I have learned in the past few months:
1) When you are depressed, a wealth of people want to commiserate. This is not helpful. Well, I suppose it *can* be...everyone needs to vent. But there is a difference between venting and wallowing and the line between the two is very, very fine. Acknowledging depression, working through it without ignoring the shadows needs to happen. But sitting in it like a puddle when your underwear is already soaked through doesn't do anyone any good.
2) When you are depressed, a wealth of people leave, figuring that they will come back when you are "you" again. That is not helpful, either. Perhaps more helpful than constant focus on the negative, but still...
It is hard to hold someone's hand through depression. Yes, I know. Being there constantly, for every breath, isn't necessary. But being present, accepting that sometimes we need to deal with others when they are not their best selves IS.
3) What I need most seems to be the hardest thing to find: friends who treat me as though nothing much is wrong. Normal conversations. Normal check-ins. Tea time. A walk. Sledding. A meal. It is hard to get back to balance when everyone is either indulging your misery, or absent.
So. That is that. On I go. Strength from within, right? Right. The breaks and cracks are where the light comes in, or so they say.
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