Work Horses Don't Get the Blues

Depression has been mostly a rare occurrence for me, so I’m slow to recognize it when it does hit. This morning, when I just didn’t want to get out of bed, I asked myself four questions. Am I under-slept? Do I have compassion fatigue from hearing too many sad stories? Is it the season? Is there an anniversary?

I figured that if I answered yes to any of them, it would help me understand and have compassion for myself and not get all sick with shame, or icky with blame about it.

Sometimes, depression is sneaky and gets in under my radar - like food that is progressively over-salted many successive days until the day I finally notice that it’s unpalatable.  

I got “Yeses” to three of the four questions and cut myself some slack, did some yoga breathing and thought about what else might be helpful. I couldn’t do anything about the season except to laugh about the impecable design. It seems that when our ancestors lived in caves, it was a good plan to be depressed during the long, seemingly endless winter. Our species might not have survived without SAAADD (Seasonally Appropriate Apathy and Dumb Down). How would you like to be across the cave from Glurg whose rank belches and toxic farts, not to mention his incessant knuckle cracking, loud sniffing and snoring, could have driven you to homicide (or is it homo-sapiencide) were you NOT terribly depressed and unable to move? Depression is seasonally useful - whether we recognize it or not in our artificial-light-and-temperature-controlled world.

I lack the constitution for real depression. My heart breaks for friends who do suffer from severe depression and they have my utmost respect and gratitude for doing what they must do just to keep showing up day after painful day. Distraction is my most honed tool. The promise of using it got me out of bed, but the usual walk to the Farmer’s Market was not an option today as it is most Sundays. My beloved’s back was suddenly spasming. The perfect distraction. Get busy! Comfort! Do bodywork tricks!  Fetch ice, arnica, herbal palliatives and ibuprofin (for good measure) to help him feel better! After that and breakfast, I busied myself with “tidying up” and entering tax information into Quicken while he watched a movie, cozily ensconced in the recliner - ice pack tucked into the back brace and extra support tucked under his knees.

This time of year may now be one of those seasons of dread for me. It is an anniversary. The slant of the morning light coming in through the patio windows - just so, the quality of the air, what’s blooming in the garden and the dates on the calendar can trigger a gestalt memory of events held deep within my psyche. The body knows what happened last January and is beginning to brace. Perhaps “brace” is what’s at work  also in my husband’s back. Within three weeks of each other, my Aunt Mickey and my Mama Barbara gave up their individual struggles and beckoned Death to carry them away.  My Auntie Lenore preceded them by two years precisely. Since last February first, every date has been the first for my brothers and me without our Mama Barbara. I’m lucky to have had her for sixty three years! Still, I miss her and my Aunties. The old guard is gone. Grim Reaper is honing his sickle and looking sideways at me. (ppfffththtbbb to you, G.R!!)

My sister-in-love had a good idea: “Let’s gather together 2-1-13 (the first anniversary of Mom’s death) and sing - as we did the night she died there in your living room, Mindy." 

"Sure," I enthused, "We can break bread, have a toast and share something sweet in gratitude for her life well-lived.”

And so we shall! Planning, shopping, cooking and cleaning will be a great distraction to keep me out of the muck. I think I'll make Tom Kha Gai Soup, Kale Salad and Shepherd's Pie - recipes our older daughter made when she came from the north to cater her grandma's passing. Surely, Paleo Comfort Food will help ease the images of those last uncomfortable hours. Anyone know where I can by Kafir Lime Leaves, Lemon Grass and Thai peppers?

Work-horses don’t usually get the blues. Mercifully, I know how to be one of those.