Depression Is A Drag

I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but I haven’t been posting with the clock-like regulatory of previous days/years.  I just haven’t felt like it.  I haven’t felt like anything.

I’ve been inhabited by the demon Depression.  It’s sucked the life out of me.  I have no interest in anything at all.

If it weren’t for my dog I’d certainly be dead by now.  Sometimes I get frustrated by that.  It’s not like this is some passing cloud.  I’ve felt this way since childhood, with a few manic episodes thrown in so I could get something done and piss off everyone in my environment in the process.

I’ve ruined two childhoods (my own and my child’s), decimated two marriages, gained and lost more than one profession, and now slog through each day putting one foot in front of the other.  Just taking up space on the planet.  

I used to volunteer, feeding people less fortunate than I.  It made me feel good to be of service. Now that my skeleton has betrayed me, I can barely lift my coffee cup, let alone sling hash.  

I think about doing some kind of phone hotline thing, like a suicide prevention line.  Stupid.  How can I help someone else who’s in crisis, when I myself dream of going to Belgium, where euthanasia for intractable mental pain is legal?

I isolate myself.  Depression is not something to chat about.

“Good morning, how are you?”

“Fuck off.  I’m depressed.”

Or how about this one:

“How are we today?”

“We feel like shit.  How about y’all?”

“Oh, is it depressed?  Don’t wallow in it!  Put on a happy face!  The sun will come out soon.”

And other well-meaning drivel.  

“Oh, my (sister, friend, whatever) got depressed after her sixth baby, and they said it was a chemical imbalance, and she took, what’s the name of that stuff that begins with a “P,” for a whole week, and it was like magic!  You really ought to try that stuff.”

Yeah.  Thanks.

Really, the suggestions make me insane.

“Why don’t you go get some more of those magnetic brain treatments?”  –Mom

Because I get them in Canada.  My brain would freeze to the pavement right now.  If I’m still alive in the spring, I’ll brave the headache and get some more TMS.  

(Yes, I know it’s available in the U.S.  A very low-voltage wimpy version that barely surpasses placebo.  Thanks for the suggestion.)

“Why don’t you get one of those SAD lights?”–I forget whose helpful suggestion this was.

I’m in Arizona.  The light here is so bright it hurts my eyes even through sunglasses.  Do you really think a SAD light is going to help?  I have one, somewhere in one of my three storage buildings, each of which contains the relics of past lives.

The first one is 10 x 20 ft.  It contains my life from 1972 or so through 2002.  My own art, millions of family photos, my medical books (now obsolete), my general library (molded), tons of relics, memorabilia, horse stuff, VHS tapes, who the fuck knows.

Then there is the 10 x 10 foot unit with my life from Israel in it: plastic tubs full of gorgeous clothes that I used to wear every day, but in the casual States would look absurd everywhere except perhaps NYC; boxes of more books, religious; more art; and assorted personal effects.

Now there’s a new one, since my mother had all my stuff from my father’s former studio, where I lived until 3/4/15, boxed up and deposited in a brand new storage unit, so she could rent the studio out.  This one has my very personal effects in it, such as my Israeli I.D. documents, my jewelry, stuff I really wasn’t prepared to have dumped unceremoniously into boxes and carted away.

Clearly this is a thorn in my side, but it’s not the cause of my depression.

I have my family to thank for that.

My mother’s mother was in and out of the hospital because of depression, her entire life.  She suffered hundreds of ECT treatments.  Many of these were given at home.  My mother and her sister were tasked with holding their mother down while she convulsed.

My father’s father was paralyzed with depression.  Like me, he tried to outrun it a few times.  His doctor recommended he move to Florida, for the sunshine.  He did better there, except when he was overtaken by bouts of paranoia that precipitated episodes of going on the lam.  He would move my grandmother and himself from one seedy Jewish residential hotel to another, keeping ahead of some imaginary threat.  Eventually my grandmother would manage to put in a call to my father, and he would fly to Miami and somehow catch up with the fugitives.  Getting Grandpa to open the door and let him in was another matter.

There are suicides on both sides of the family.  It’s quite a genetic load.  

No one told me any of this until I was sitting in my bare room during my first hospitalization, trying to make sense out of this enormously intimate and awkward conversation, painfully aware of the fact that I had a roommate who was trying to be respectful of my non-existent privacy.  My father came to visit me just once.  He was too “shook up” seeing me in that condition.  My mother, who is always up for drama no matter what the cause, came every day, for the first two days.  After that it ceased to be exciting.  She is easily bored.

I’m not sure how long I can keep this up.  I don’t want to traumatize my son and my ancient mother.  Even more, I don’t want to leave my Biggess Doggess to suffer who knows what kind of fate.  She’s got failing kidneys and other health issues, despite being a young lass of 2 10/12.  I can’t bear the thought of someone not taking care of her.

I guess I’m not ready to die yet.  I still have what to live for, even if it’s not a love for life itself.  Even if I have outlived most of my purpose.  I wonder what will happen.

So Much For My Salmon!

Yesterday I shared my horror at discovering that the guvvy is mucking about with the food supply again–this time in the form of “GMO” giantized salmon.

At the very moment of that writing, a fillet of what looked to be perfectly normal Atlantic salmon reposed in my fridge.  I purchased this, mind you, before I had any idea that Frankensalmon could be even now glaring at me through the fish counter window.

After reading the GMO fish article I reflected a moment, then decided not to pitch it based on its petite proportions.  After all, I am petite (?). 

So this evening I decided to eat it, despite the fact that I was not at all hungry.  I have been struggling with this damn depression for many months now, which has ruined my appetite and made me even more petite.  But I gathered my resolve.  I must eat if I am to have strength to fight this monkey off my back, right?

So I took a pack of this yummy gluten free rice ramen, which tastes like cardboard soaked in hot pee.  A nice piece of fresh salmon will flavorize it, right?

Removing the fillet from its brown paper wrapping, I inspected it for signs of illegitimacy.  There were none.  I smelled it.  It smelled like fresh salmon.

Atina, my now-20-month-old Belgian Malinois, was driving me crazy humping her fleece blanket.  She does that.  Often.  She is a sex-crazed teenager.

So, to get her mind off of humping for two minutes, I cut a strip of raw salmon skin into tiny bits, made her sit and look deeeply into my eyes, and handed her a bit of salmon.

You would think that any dog would be in ecstatic transports, being the lucky recipient of a piece of salmon, no?

No.

Atina rolled it around on her palate, gave it a cursory chew, and spit it out on the floor with a look that said, “Awww, wadja do THAT for?”

“Girl,” says I, “You have just become the Royal Tasteress.”

I threw the rest of that fucking fish in the freezer, to be disposed of next time I go to the dump. 

I really think this is a sign that after our Thanksgiving duck I need to become a better vegetarian.

My main problem is motivation.  No, wait.  My main problem is that I’m too fucking depressed to care whether I eat or not.  It’s a vicious cycle, because the less I eat, the more my nutrition suffers, my body falls apart, my brain doesn’t work right, and everything sucks more.

If I had a lovely dark skinned South Indian kitchen staff cooking for me, I bet I’d eat.  There is nothing that will make my senses happier than dosai (a crepe made out of lentil paste) filled with spiced potatoes, with sambar (a piquant soup served with dosai and related dishes), coconut/green chili chutney, tamarind chutney, and slurping it up gloriously with the hands.

I think of my beautiful brown friends in South India who fed me so lovingly, and begged me to stop crying because it was making them sad.  But I couldn’t stop crying because no one had ever been so kind to me before.

One woman in particular touches my heart to its core.

She is a big woman in a culture that values petiteness, and she feels this acutely.  Also she is very dark, and Indian women are obsessed with trying to make themselves fair.

I think she is the most beautiful woman in the world.  When she wraps you up in her soft-strong hug, chuckling from somewhere in her soul, you feel embraced by the Cosmic Mother.

When she confided her sadnesses to me, I said, only half joking, “Oh my dear, you are so beautiful, can I come and live at your house?”

She looked very seriously and long, her deep brown eyes into my mood-ring blue hazel ones, and said,

“Yes.”

Unlike myself, who live in a tin can with a bathroom in it, my friend lives in a mud hut with no bathroom in it.  Cooking is done over an open fire.  Panthers, tigers, snakes and rabid domestic animals are the local hazards, not counting the men.  My friend’s husband beat her because she miscarried her baby, then he left her for another girl.

I have to think of her more.  A large part of me wishes I hadn’t left.  Another, larger piece of me wants to go back and find her.   I would learn how to cook dosai, iddlies, vadas, biryani…anything to make those deep brown eyes light up.

But no salmon.

I don’t believe my friend has tasted salmon.