With all the business about being fashionably mindful, I had to put the brake on myself. I do this routinely anyway.
“What,” asked my mindfulness reminder person a while back when we still met, “Do you do when things get bleak?”
“Wait.” In other words sit it out. Don’t move a muscle.
My mindfulness reminder person had a tough time with me during our short acquaintance. “I am not sure,” she confessed immediately after the intake, “that I can handle you.”
Like in a zoo. At times I can’t manage myself at all. Take not too long ago. I wanted to go away. Permanently. Again. Another round of bleak. I have to remind myself that there are reasons to carry on. And so going to bed, I said to myself with woe, “Just wait.” I am actually a fairly good morning person so this rarely backfires.
Activity wise I could launch a week’s worth of appreciative of life’s molecules material at myself on my Facebook page, because let’s face it, the person who spends the most time looking at their facebook page is their own vanity. Just to cheer myself up, I could post pictures of kitten fuzz all over the place. Who am I anyway? Of course I like kittens! Everybody does!
“How?” I could see that my mindfulness person was terrified. There’s always a plan sketched out and she was, against all her better instincts, asking for the point to point. For her, though finally and thankfully, the exit survey over our discussions swiftly entered the arena. I felt like clubbing her with words, just because I knew I had some power over her and didn’t have to see her again. It was an evil moment and I didn’t go there. Instead I ended up asking as politely as possible, “Who do I need to be for you?”
Lighten up, I said to myself. The poor woman doesn’t deserve the responsibility, or the corpse.
Mwmph I tell myself, “You are nearly fifty. Don’t you think it’s time to be you? Submit ‘Ride me Thanatos’ into some petty midway poetry review for God’s sake and come out of the closet.”
I can’t remember being anything other than like this since I was small. Inherited perhaps, perhaps not, dark memories lurk, nothing is going away or fading out of view. It’s not curable. “Pills,” my minder offered the suggestion. I baulked. Every day on a pill or every few whatever up and down in a bad cycle?
Black dog days people say. Well, it’s certainly faithful, we can say that at least about depression and/or depression pills. “I just want you to be able to sit down and relax.” My mindfulness coach had said to me. I thought she had lost the plot. Being directive and focused offers a lot less opportunities when, say, I notice that the coming week will be minus seven at night. Because if the stars line up right, and I start tanking then this becomes hallowed ground.
“Look,” I tried that; I explained to her. “That was my marriage. Calm, quiet little life, carrying on unobtrusively. Foyer, permanent lobby, keys at the reception, guest book, weekly menu, bike rides around the lakes to blow off steam.” There’s nothing much left over from that, except the dog with her warm little sausage body. I take her for quite the tour on garbage nights and early mornings in Amsterdam. We look at remnants of household rejects together, and then she pees on them. Empty vindication.
The bag had been left by the bike racks in the morning. Open and rifled. By afternoon it was still there. I peeked into it. Someone’s ratty overnight bag with the side pockets filled with medicine, little mouse Stuart Little rafts of green pills like musical instruments rattling for attention. I called the police to report the bag found. Then I reflected sourly, a night or two ago I had been contemplating the lack of enough pills to finish myself off (hypothetical combo with hypothermia amuse bouche), and now I was handing my merciful death over to the authorities with a slight layer of regret in the back of my head.