I Am Thankful

I am blessed.  I am cursed.

I have good health.  I have my wits.  I sometimes feel like a cliché for the depression that affects me – sensitive girl, sometime artistic person who falls into a funk and does not feel right.  I do not fulfill my potential.  Yet another writer / musician paralyzed by the depth of darkness.  But I claw my way out.  Tears streaming down my face, I pull myself out and no matter how bad I feel, I force myself to function, so therefore, I am functional.  I refuse to be dysfunctional.

There are those that are no so lucky - those close to me that no matter how I have the desire to disown, they are mine.  They are me.  They are that other side of me that cannot claw themselves out of that hole.  They need the pills, they can’t get out of bed, they cannot function.  When I feel like I cannot get out of bed, I do.  When I cannot face the mundane tasks of the day, I do.  It hurts but I make it work.  But there are those who do not.

They check themselves in.  I cannot visit.  They take one pill to counteract the other and wind up in rehab.  They do not do.  Why am I different?  Why me?  Instead of asking why me – why did this misfortune befall me, I ask, why did this fortune befall me?  Why am I so lucky that I can do this, that I can get through it?  Why can I get out of bed?  Why do I not need the daily pills?  Why have I not spent time in a psychiatric facility when I know I am the same.

I feel guilty.  I wish I could take their place. I have it easy.  They have it hard.  I wish I could change places because I love them and I want it to be easier for them.  I think that I would be able to handle it better than they could, because I had the misfortune of being stronger. 

I try to make light of it and pretend it doesn’t knock me on my ass.  I joke about it.  Everyone has their shit.  Bad things happen to everyone.  But it still hurts to watch your family suffer.  Please, God, take me.  The age-old proclamation.

I remember my sister was in the hospital on Thanksgiving.  I called my mother to suggest why doing Thanksgiving at the hospital.  It seemed to me, that’s what thanksgiving was for – to make the day better for those less fortunate.  I had other, more functional relatives, and my mother was reluctant to change their plans for a “normal” Thanksgiving.  I killed me to think my sister would be all alone.  I at least convinced my mother to have dinner earlier, so I could make a plate for her and take it to the hospital before visiting hours were over.  I took her a whole pumpkin pie.

I got to the window where they signed me in and buzzed me back.  I gave my sister the bag with the recycled Chinese take-out container with turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing and cranberry sauce.  When I revealed the entire pie, she was excited, and invited some of the other patients to share, asking the nurse for napkins and plastic cutlery.  She was so proud she introduced me around.  She had someone from the outside that brought a little bit of love, or at least attention, to the inside.

When I left, they buzzed me out, and I could see her face through the narrow, reinforced window waving excitedly goodbye.  It killed me to leave her behind.  Why was I the only one there?

Now she is back on the inside.  I don’t know who is waving to her from the other side of the glass.  My other sister is struggling to stay on the outside, so I don’t blame her.  She’s doing all she can.  But I am on the outside, and she is on the inside.  And for that, I feel myself sink again.  I will go to bed and not feel like getting up tomorrow.  But I will.