In the souldark night…

To those who follow me–here and on Twitter–I ask for your patience and understanding. Please bear with me.
My weeks of househunting have been more than a little frustrating; one place offered turned out to be a scam; two places wouldn’t let unless I had work and/or filled out a credit score report. (How in the world do you get a score without a credit card? That’s what I’d like to know.) And my cash stash has been so depleted that I couldn’t even scrape up bus fare to view other places.
At the moment, I am also without a cell (matter of do-re-mi to pay the bill), so even calling the places that I find intriguing proves a challenge.
And yesterday saw me at my lowest–unable to get through to two friends (one who did not want to be disturbed as he was ill, the other whose visit I missed, and I could not let him know I was behind time).
In a perfect storm of depression, pain, and grief, I pulled out paper and wrote a suicide letter, incorporating elements of a last will into it. Not my first time writing such a note, but the first time I finished one, and itemized what I wanted to give away. It was scary, cathartic, and exhilarating, in a perverse way.

I went for a walk, later on, and wound up at AA, a sobbing mess.

Why am I writing all this? ‘Cos I need support at this time. I do. I don’t think I will follow through, but I need to know that you hear me, and that I’m not an imbecile or a freak for feeling so low. If you decide to unfollow, I wish you well. I do. This is heavy stuff.

But if you stick with me, I can promise my gratitude, my loyalty, and my love.

So thank you for hearing me out.

Bienvenidos a microlandia!

The Blue Christmas Party, last night, was great fun. Hearing John Dufresne, Diana Abu-Jaber, et alia read excerpts from the anthology lifted my spirits. (Of course, the blue mojitos, cake, and jelly orange slices didn’t hurt–neither did the friendliness of the audience. I ran into more than a couple of people I’d met earlier…)
Sunday morning rolled around, and found me in a funk. Took a little while to get up, but my cat, Ten-Ten, got fed, and so did I (peanut butter toast and iced coffee). Thankfully, I took an umbrella, or the squally weather would have kept me inside.
Divine Liturgy was good, though at several points I did feel that I might burst into tears. But the service passed without drama, and afterward, there was a rehearsal for the Christmas pageant–followed by lunch at Maroosh. The mezze alone were filling, and the kebabs (chicken and kofta) left me a little stuffed. Sadly, I did not snag any baklava or coffee, but that might have been overkill.
Came home, did a little washing, and took a nap, Ten-Ten curling into me. Woke up an hour later, got out. Tried to drop off a few DVDs at Ozzie’s–not there, so I just walked on.
I’ve been rereading Andrew Solomon’s The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, and mulling over the nature of this shadow sharer in my life. I suppose I’ve wanted to understand what this depression is, what triggers it, how it comes and goes, since I was a kid, and experiencing the pain and strangeness of my family’s disintegration. (Nineteen seventy-five was a traumatic year, let’s just say.) I’m not a psychologist, but I have learned a few things over time:
depression is pretty slippery and mutable; it never affects the same way twice; it has flared up around the holidays–and more recently, around the birth-and deathdays of my parents; it’s often accompanied by anxiety, which leaves me feeling dumbstruck; and I wonder how I can find a way to communicate what is going on.
People are kind (in the main), and when they advise me to take supplements, cheer up, buck up, yadada yadada, they do so with the best of intentions. Comforting, yes, but more often than not, frustrating. If I could flip depression off and on, oh, do believe I’d try to permastick the switch in the OFF position. It’s not as though I wake up and say to myself, “Hey, today I’m just going to spend the day shambling along like a sleepwalker. No–better yet–I’m going to stay in bed, sleep the afternoon away, and just pass time listless and apathetic. Call it a plan!” But I digress.
Working retail during the holidays has always been a draining experience. Between playing diplo with customers, fielding advice, the nonstop sensory assault of decorations, bad music, and the compulsory cheeriness that one must show in public, I’m surprised that I haven’t come to despise the season altogether. The last two Christmases have been stressful in their own way; I honestly did not want to spend the last one with D and his family. Not that they weren’t lovely or gracious, or that the dinner and company were horrible, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness that I couldn’t spend the time with my parents, my maternal grandmother, or my great-grandmother. Yes, it was wonderful to read Brodsky after the Nochebuena dinner; thoughtful to receive a cute bit of wall art; enjoy sangria and eggnog. But I wanted my mom. I wanted my dad. Kind as they all were, D’s family was not my family! And after the festivities, I felt guilty at the relief of not having to put on a face for company.
Moving along…
I wrote several micropoems today. I didn’t get much done yesterday with Set List, but writing lifted my spirits somewhat. I am toying with the notion of putting out a collection of micropoetry–but let me finish the first collection and get that published before I wear myself out! Since I have composed bilingual micropoems (Spanish-English, Spanish-Portuguese), Microlandia may make a great title. What d’you think?

Tonight

At Planet Linux Caffe in the Gables. I’ve found myself more than a little frustrated (and down) from lack of work, the feeling of being uninspired as a writer, and from living so close to the edge.
I feel that I have to force myself to move, never mind write, transcribe, or feed my cat. The dryness has left me fatigued. Yet I know that dry periods, like fertile periods, are not forever, and that to make even a little effort is to take a step toward better things.
At home, I have decorations up. No room for a tree, but I will probably get some evergreen branches and arrange them. Not a family tradition–but after 20 years, it has become my tradition. How to keep my inquisitive cat from noshing on the greens–there’s a challenge!
I’ve just composed a couple of gogyokha in Spanish–part of my “corona” series. Considering whether or not to compile my micropoems and publish them in ‘zine form (“How–retro–of you.”)
Tomorrow night, Books & Books is hosting a presentation on Japanese cooking. Saturday, John Dufresne, Diana Abu-Jaber, and other authors will turn out for the anthology, Blue Christmas. It looks to be an interesting weekend.