You know how when you couldn't sleep the night before, but you have a busy day, you are able to buzz right along, mostly on the adrenaline of fulfilling all your scheduled obligations, and you are thinking, wow, I don't need eight hours of a sleep after all, I can totally do this. I've been one of those lucky three-hour-a-night souls all along. What was I thinking sleeping my life away? It's all a rather amazing revelation until you sit down. Once you've settled your body into a position of rest...couch, chair, bed- you can no longer move, not even to blink.
I've been treading water since my return from Florida, fighting the depression that loomed like so many dark thunderheads. I was doing so well- Cory's art display, the trip to Italy, the newspaper article, the training in Florida; what happened? That's easy. I sat down.
It's funny how when you are ripe for the fall, the tiniest thing will catch you off balance.
Here's what happened yesterday:
The cats were out of food, and ready to take over the house for fresh meat. I hinted to Tim how cool it would be if he ran over to Family Fare, saving all of our lives from death by hungry felines. He took one look at me- unwashed, uncombed, carrying my stuffed Eeyore around the house like a toddler- and gently ignored my request. He knew I'd eventually cave and go myself, and was desperate to see me out of the house and in motion, any kind of motion at all.
Slightly put out, I slipped on my shoes, and grabbed my debit card. If I had to go, I was going au naturel. Family Fare did not deserve my personal grooming. In I trooped, dirty, miserable, having eaten nothing in the last day but a couple of grapes and lots of coffee.
I grabbed the cat food, and stopped to pick up some cosmetic sponges on the way to the register. I didn't have the slightest intention of putting on makeup, you understand- rather, they are great for dabbing paint on a stencil without bleed-through. My art supplies have commandeered the dining room table, for which my own rule was once "don't set anything on the table unless you intend to eat it or light it on fire". That rule went by the wayside some time ago, as did my ability and desire to organize. Since I never cook anymore, I've briefly flirted with the idea of cleaning the oven really well, and then storing my art supplies in it, but that would involve cleaning...so it remains a notion.
I stopped at the little E.L.F. cosmetic display to grab the sponges, and noticed they've come out with a whole little line of purse products: bobby pin packs, shine sheets, ponytail holders in a cute little case. My chest just burned. I wanted to grab up one of each item and take them home to Cory, who would jump up and down over six dollars worth of trinkets, and fill her purse happily to the brim.
When Tim and I were separated, there wasn't a ton of money coming in, and extras were shaved down to what we really couldn't live without. Cory and I at one point had shared a $1 E.L.F. black eyeliner pencil- not exactly healthy to be sharing eye makeup products, but, boy, did it build our cooperation skills. If you want to make two females bond, force them to share cosmetics.
I stumbled out of that stupid store, pulled out onto fricking West Michigan Avenue, and drove to my house which was no longer a home without Cory there, just a place to be tortured- equal turns- by her absence and her memory.
Once inside, wondering if this is what living in a mausoleum would be like, I took to my bed. Tim came in before he left for work, watched me cry, and backed carefully out of the room, telling me to be sure to call the doctor on Monday. Tim doesn't like to talk and he doesn't hold people. He will, however, offer you an excellent doctor referral. Medical professionals are his tried and true brand of comfort.
I fell asleep still crying, and woke up with the answer to it all. I had quite a bit of my meds. No one locked it up anymore. Laying there, under the blanket with Cory's face on it, I went through the motions in my head. Going to sleep and not waking up? What was not to like?
Awhile later, I texted my friend, Nicole, my best friend since fourth grade. I am always a little hurt that she never tells me that she completely understands and to just lay down and die. That is what I expect her to say when I've finished telling her my woes. Instead, she always offers tough love. This time around, it went something like this,
"Get up! Get busy!" she typed.
Was this girl for real? I just lay there, rolling my eyes at my ceiling that needed to be cleaned.
"Go clean out a drawer or a closet." she suggested.
Seriously? I typed back rather snottily, "Cleaning does not make me feel better."
This is true. Cleaning is what I do best when I'm angry. If you want me to clean your house from top to bottom, invite me over, and piss me off royally. My hands will begin to move of their own accord.
Nicole responded, "Don't think of it as cleaning. Think of it as a project."
When depressed, I am seldom cooperative. "I have no energy for a project."
She came back with this, "It's not a project. It's saving your life."
I typed back, "It doesn't seem worth the trouble." and shut the lid to my laptop. I rolled over, and went to sleep, hating everything, and myself most of all. That thought crept in just as I drifted off, You killed your girl. You killed the one you loved most.
Why is the guilt creeping back in? You've got me. The flashbacks have been bad lately, sometimes during the day, but most often at night. When I see her bloody and broken body laid out on the road, it is hard to look down at my hands, and find them clean.
When I woke up, it was after five in the afternoon. I had to get out to pay a bill, or there would be a late fee, which I certainly couldn't afford...hell, I can't even afford the bill itself. I tried to get Jake to come with me, but he begged to stay home. He has, in recent months, become a little agoraphobic. It takes a lot to get him to leave the house, and a boring errand with his mother is just not one of them.
Not even running a brush through my hair, I headed out. Waiting in line to make my payment, I glimpsed myself in the mirror, and scared myself. Really, I jumped. It was like that scene in Sixteen Candles, where the outcast is drinking shots in the bathroom, sees himself in the mirror, and is like, "Oh my God!"
Back in the parking lot, I got behind the wheel that led me of its own accord to Michael's craft store. I had been toying with the idea of learning to carve rubber stamps. Sixteen dollars later, I was headed home, completely oblivious that I had just taken Nicole's advice: start a project.
I fed Jacob, and planted myself at the dining room table. With my Beats on, I sat and carved for the next couple of hours. It was unexpectedly soothing. I think what I like best about carving is that you can assess where you are, and then make it better. A small stroke or cut can make a huge difference. It made me think about how much I've wanted things in my life to look different, but despite my best efforts, they never turned out like I wanted. I couldn't make Cory well. I couldn't make her father well. I never got my family with him, no matter how hard I tried.
So as I sat and patiently carved, I realized some things have been out of my control, but this rubber stamp, at least, could be shaped the way I wanted. I could make mistakes all night long, and go back in to make them better. I think that's also why I like to paint...mistakes are easily forgiven. Nothing is permanent. Someone once said, "A painting is never really finished; it simply stops in an interesting place."
Hours later, I had two finished stamps. One was of hearts that Cory drew- one of which I have inked on my hand. The other was a copy of a drawing I'd done. I felt pretty proud of myself.
And thinking about all this carving also gave me a question to answer: what else do I want to make before they carve my name in stone?
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