TEN WAYS I KNOW I’M DEPRESSED
By Roberta Jean Bryant
1. It’s sunny outside
I know it’s sunny outside
I don’t care if it’s sunny outside
2. I hate myself
I hate everybody else
No exceptions
3. I see everything in shades of gray and black
even rainbows
4. I don’t feel like going to the library
5. I’d rather take a nap than play Scrabble
6. One of my children calls and I find a way to screw it up
I don’t even know what “it” refers to
7. I feel as if I’ve outlived my usefulness
and they’ll be sorry when I’m dead anyway
I don’t even know who “they” are
8. “Cheer up, things could be worse,” I tell myself.
So, I cheer up
and, sure enough, things get worse
9. I am not hungry
and I never stop eating
10. I’ve quit writing
even in my head
CAR TROUBLE
by Roberta Jean Bryant
My 1995 Toyota Corolla is important to me. It’s certainly my most valued possession--maybe more important to me than my small apartment. A recent visitor to my apartment asked me why I didn’t have a sofa even though I’ve lived there almost six years; I didn’t have a good answer for her; it had never occurred to me to question it. The previous twelve years I had lived in a small RV where I did not have running water. If I wanted hot water I heated it on the propane stove. Practically speaking I did not want to drive around with heavy gallons of water in the tank sloshing around. All these things represent choices—peculiar choices maybe, but choices nonetheless. I do love that my apartment has hot water on demand.
My car represents freedom, independence, and mobility. I am currently coping with decreased physical mobility, so being able to get around in my car is more significant than ever. I identify and over-identify with my car. Even though car insurance and maintenance takes a disproportionate amount of my social security income it’s worth it to me. More choices. I do not have any extra money for car repairs; I do budget for routine oil changes.
Several months ago my car was having problems; the heater didn’t work very well; the engine sounded like a 747 when I started it up; there was a funny smell inside. I thought maybe cold weather and old age were affecting the car the same way they did me. I talked to two of my sons about the problem. They agreed that fifteen years old is getting up there for a little car. I was feeling old myself and definitely had problems getting started on cold mornings.
I’d been wrestling with a seasonal depression--wondering if I’d outlived my usefulness. I began disasterizing. Maybe my car had outlived its usefulness. I worried about the car breaking down, getting stuck, or causing an accident. Not my usual frame of mind. Driving was anxiety producing; not fun. Despite all that, I did not take the car to my reliable mechanic, Dave. “I can’t afford it,” I told myself. My head was firmly stuck in the sands of denial. I kept putting off getting it checked out. Making no choice is a choice.
Weeks later when I finally took the car in for an oil change I mentioned the 747 factor. A short time later came the bad news. $800. worth of bad news; something about a water pump causing all the trouble, and them needing to keep my car overnight. And $800. “Maybe I could sell a kidney,” I said in a let’s-kill-the-messenger tone of voice. Not cool. Wrong choice of words, but I felt no choice about getting it repaired.
The good news was that I did trust my mechanic, and he gave me a loaner car. And I had a credit card that would handle the $800. It might take me the better part of a year to pay it off, but peace of mind was worth almost that much.
After ransoming my pride and joy, I tucked my credit card back in my wallet and prepared to drive away. “You know,” Dave remarked, “it’s a good little car; there’s a lot of life left in her.”
Dave’s words followed me as I drove home in the cold rain feeling better than I had for months. Maybe, I thought, there might be a lot of life left in me too. Suddenly I chose to feel better. $800. worth of instant therapy!
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
GOOD MOURNING
by Roberta Jean Bryant
No it’s not a typo. I deliberately put the U in morning.
For a long time now I’ve had trouble with the standard greeting, “Good morning.” Even more trouble with its counterpart, “How are you?”
I understand intellectually that these pleasantries are social lubricants and probably necessary in a polite society. However, I have a literal mind and a perhaps misguided sense of honesty. Maybe I should have lived in a ruder society.
The problem is that it’s not always a good morning for me. And, more importantly, people do not want to hear my opinion about what kind of morning I think it is. So, there I am – always on the brink of spoiling somebody’s perfectly good day.
I’m trying out a new response to your good-morning greeting: “Good mourning, spelled with a U.” It covers the bases of social nicety. Most people will hear just the good-morning part, and all of us should be happy. The few that understand will know that I’m in mourning on account of the wretched day.
Back to, “How are you?” People don’t really want to know that either. When I complain I’m depressed or in mortal pain it’s a real conversation stopper. Equally distressing is when I’m happily burbling on about the glorious pink dogwoods blooming, and my fellow human being is in pain. Outside of my internist, nobody, me included, appreciates an impromptu organ recital.
I’m experimenting with ambiguous, but honest, responses to, “How are you?” Such as, “I’m ambulatory. I like the fact that many people don’t know what ambulatory means. These days I’m favoring, “I’ve been better.” Or, “I’ve been worse.” Covers the bases.
Now that you’re listening, I am also incensed by the ubiquitous, “Have a good day,” said upon departure. Who are you to tell me what kind of day to have? I do understand how snarky that sounds, but that’s how I feel. Not that you asked. Not that you really want to know.
My favorite daughter used to have the following outgoing message on her voice mail, “Have a good day… unless you have other plans.” Makes you think, don’t it? Works for me!
by Roberta Jean Bryant
No it’s not a typo. I deliberately put the U in morning.
For a long time now I’ve had trouble with the standard greeting, “Good morning.” Even more trouble with its counterpart, “How are you?”
I understand intellectually that these pleasantries are social lubricants and probably necessary in a polite society. However, I have a literal mind and a perhaps misguided sense of honesty. Maybe I should have lived in a ruder society.
The problem is that it’s not always a good morning for me. And, more importantly, people do not want to hear my opinion about what kind of morning I think it is. So, there I am – always on the brink of spoiling somebody’s perfectly good day.
I’m trying out a new response to your good-morning greeting: “Good mourning, spelled with a U.” It covers the bases of social nicety. Most people will hear just the good-morning part, and all of us should be happy. The few that understand will know that I’m in mourning on account of the wretched day.
Back to, “How are you?” People don’t really want to know that either. When I complain I’m depressed or in mortal pain it’s a real conversation stopper. Equally distressing is when I’m happily burbling on about the glorious pink dogwoods blooming, and my fellow human being is in pain. Outside of my internist, nobody, me included, appreciates an impromptu organ recital.
I’m experimenting with ambiguous, but honest, responses to, “How are you?” Such as, “I’m ambulatory. I like the fact that many people don’t know what ambulatory means. These days I’m favoring, “I’ve been better.” Or, “I’ve been worse.” Covers the bases.
Now that you’re listening, I am also incensed by the ubiquitous, “Have a good day,” said upon departure. Who are you to tell me what kind of day to have? I do understand how snarky that sounds, but that’s how I feel. Not that you asked. Not that you really want to know.
My favorite daughter used to have the following outgoing message on her voice mail, “Have a good day… unless you have other plans.” Makes you think, don’t it? Works for me!
THE ZEN OF SWIMMING
If I had to specify a religion these days, I’d choose swimming; it’s the one thing I do religiously. I go every day to the old Foster High pool, which, when it was orphaned seven years ago, was adopted by the Tukwila Parks Department. The pool is on life-support due to budget problems, but Robert, the maintenance guru, keeps things working.
I prefer lane number one, to myself if possible, so I can do my Zen of swimming thing -- in search of momentary peace of mind, or relaxation, or inner wisdom. All good stuff this Zen of swimming.
When I mentioned this to someone in the pool she bristled at the word Zen, and, when I tried to explain that Zen was more a philosophy than a religion, and swimming was my time for meditation, she still seemed uncomfortable. “What’s the difference between prayer and meditation?” I asked.
She just shrugged. “I think that prayer is talking to God; meditation is listening for God,” I said. Her hostility slightly mollified, I returned to dogpaddling in my lane trying to listen.
There I sought to merge with the water, with the flow, with the now. I tried to ignore the weather, transcend the water temperature, outswim my chattering monkey mind. Listening, listening, listening.
Listening is difficult when the pool gets crowded. There’s my nemesis,“The Splasher,” whose aggressive swim strokes disturb everyone’s measured laps. There’s the ladies who swim to socialize that arrive in couples or groups who-must–not-be-split-apart; they crowd into anyone’s lane with their chatter, chatter, chatter. In the summertime there’s pods of shrieking children.
Those are the times I get to practice my defensive swimming, and my patience, or a colorful variety of swear words, often in a foreign language. One of the best things about swimming is they can’t tell when you’re crying
At one time when I had a church to attend, it was always a hassle to get there at all. I’d have to get three or four sleepy preschoolers washed and dressed for Sunday school. I almost never felt like going, but was almost always glad that I’d gone.
Swimming is like that for me, especially in the wintertime. “Too dark, too wet, too cold,” – my favorite winter rant, and I never feel like going. But I go seven days a week religiously, and invariably I’m always glad I’ve gone.
If I had to specify a religion these days, I’d choose swimming; it’s the one thing I do religiously. I go every day to the old Foster High pool, which, when it was orphaned seven years ago, was adopted by the Tukwila Parks Department. The pool is on life-support due to budget problems, but Robert, the maintenance guru, keeps things working.
I prefer lane number one, to myself if possible, so I can do my Zen of swimming thing -- in search of momentary peace of mind, or relaxation, or inner wisdom. All good stuff this Zen of swimming.
When I mentioned this to someone in the pool she bristled at the word Zen, and, when I tried to explain that Zen was more a philosophy than a religion, and swimming was my time for meditation, she still seemed uncomfortable. “What’s the difference between prayer and meditation?” I asked.
She just shrugged. “I think that prayer is talking to God; meditation is listening for God,” I said. Her hostility slightly mollified, I returned to dogpaddling in my lane trying to listen.
There I sought to merge with the water, with the flow, with the now. I tried to ignore the weather, transcend the water temperature, outswim my chattering monkey mind. Listening, listening, listening.
Listening is difficult when the pool gets crowded. There’s my nemesis,“The Splasher,” whose aggressive swim strokes disturb everyone’s measured laps. There’s the ladies who swim to socialize that arrive in couples or groups who-must–not-be-split-apart; they crowd into anyone’s lane with their chatter, chatter, chatter. In the summertime there’s pods of shrieking children.
Those are the times I get to practice my defensive swimming, and my patience, or a colorful variety of swear words, often in a foreign language. One of the best things about swimming is they can’t tell when you’re crying
At one time when I had a church to attend, it was always a hassle to get there at all. I’d have to get three or four sleepy preschoolers washed and dressed for Sunday school. I almost never felt like going, but was almost always glad that I’d gone.
Swimming is like that for me, especially in the wintertime. “Too dark, too wet, too cold,” – my favorite winter rant, and I never feel like going. But I go seven days a week religiously, and invariably I’m always glad I’ve gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)