I hate the word “depression,” as I detest all clinical phrases. They serve to dehumanize and they also don’t get at what is really going on with people. A neat label does not begin to encapsulate the complexity of human existence, and I feel does it a disservice. But looking at the word depression in a non-clinical sense, there is the visual of the dark hole. I feel an inner sunkenness. A low-down-ness. That resonates.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not an every second of the day thing. I’m not debilitated by it. I work and I play and I do what I have to do. I water the plants. I do the dishes. I shower. There are moments when I smile, and it’s authentic. There are many many moments when I connect deeply with Sami, and every cell of my being is engrossed in playing with him and being by his side. Today I have laughed and felt inspired and been encouraged by friends.
Yet, the quiet desperation is there, hanging like a thick fog all around.
I realize how ridiculous it is that in my last post I can say that I love myself, but then refer to myself as a freak and other quite unkind words. I guess it is possible to both love someone and think of them as a freakish loser. Perhaps that is my relationship with myself these days. A true love-hate relationship.
It is the nature of this place I’m in, to where the kind words and love of others penetrates, but does not seem to stick. It’s as if it passes right through. The support is welcome, and appreciated deeply, but then I cannot hold on to the kindness of others, and sort of bounce right back to my baseline of extreme aversion to this way of life. I don’t even know if it’s aversion or resignation, but either way it feels like shit.
It seems like ALL my single friends are dating but me. I’m not exaggerating.
I hear them talk about people they are dating and my cynicism flares up. I recognize that infatuated tone in their voices, remember that spring in their steps, the fun, the hopefulness, the excitement of a new lover.
I want them to be happy, yet I am waiting for their shiny bubble to pop. Perhaps because mine always has. I am projecting my own shit onto them and it’s not nice. I now believe that the bubble is too fragile to last, and cringe in anticipation of the eventual moment of their heartbreak. I do not wish it upon them, believe me I do not, yet I feel so hopeless about relationships that it is hard for me to feel hope for anyone else.
I am still in love with someone who does not love me, a man about as accessible as Pluto, and it makes me ill. Yet I cannot seem to quit my longing for that unattainable person. It is visceral. An ugly addiction that keeps on hurting me. I despise this brand of suffering. It is truly a hell-state on earth, and I know that liberation is possible but from this vantage point, this down low vantage point, I can’t seem to figure out how to emerge into a more liberated place. Perhaps this is where I need to be, down in this trench, a war going on around. I am just trying to keep myself safe so I can take care of my child and do what I have to do each day.
This past weekend I went with a wonderful friend to receive the darshan from Amma, the hugging saint.
When I received the darshan, it was extraordinary in a different way. I did not tear up as I did two years ago, but I did feel a sense of inner peace and a relaxing of my clenched heart. A remembrance of what it is like to be unconditionally loved. What I enjoyed, even more than receiving the darshan, was watching her give it. She embraced each person with such total presence, you could see that every fiber of her being was focused on what she was doing, and then when it was time to let go, she let go with joy. She smiled! She let go!
How I wish I could do this in my relationships. I hold on, when the time for holding on is long past.
How I wish to turn towards the good, to leave this hole behind. I trust that I will, when I am ready and when it is time. For now it is time to endure this grief, it is time to hang out in places I don’t want to be, trusting that there is healing here, that liberation is possible, even in hell, and that somewhere in the world, Amma is probably embracing someone with all her heart and soul.
Welcome to this blog - my chronicle of the illuminating, character-building path of single parenthood. I'm making this up as I go along. My life is my practice, and my five year-old son is my greatest teacher.