Willie Nelson’s “Just Breathe,” another song that followed me during the last months of life with Mark. I hadn’t heard the song in months, and lately it’s been on the radio again – heard it twice last week. “Stay with me/let’s just breathe” …. Those words, those words. I have to believe they were written by someone who’s gone through what we went through, the slow letting go of a life.
I have dealt with my grief by staying busy. When I slow down, the regrets catch up with me. Sneaky bastards. They have attached themselves to even the best moments that Mark and I had. Apparently, if I want to remember the good, I have to relive the pain too. Bastards.
Today was a good day, a productive day. But Depression (the capital-D kind) was dogging my tail, and I didn’t realize it until around dinner time when my mood did a big belly-flop and I spent a few hours in misery. It’s lifted now. I’m not exactly tap dancing tonight, but I’m up out of the dungeon. Busy week ahead, with work and then something happening almost every night and a full weekend. That helps.
I remind myself that Depression, at best, is a bad filter. At its worst, it’s a big fat liar. Depression reports hateful, terrible things as gospel truth. With help – and medication – I understand that the dark feelings will eventually lift and more tolerable ones seep in.
For some people, Depression does not lift. Which is why I have two doctors, one counselor, a minister, and loved ones who have agreed to keep watch and tell me if I appear to be circling the drain.
Some of my friends have retreated. I am not great company. I am stumbling all over the damn place, frustrated, feeling clumsy and foolish, and not so lovable. (Just ask my children.) I want to rip off the Band-Aid. I want it off, all of it, the layers of pain and fear, regret and sorrow, and I want to get back to my life.
But what life is that? Too much to deal with, too much to sort through, too much to process.
Baby steps when I want to run. Grief sucks.