It was six weeks since the last rain and the garden was holding on by a thread.  The beans were still thriving.  And the tomatoes, the zucchini, the marigolds.  I had continued to water every chance I got despite the water restrictions, despite the potential $400 fine or the neighbors’ dirty looks.   I also continued to turn new earth, rubbing open old blisters and sowing seeds too late for planting.  The garden had become both my obsession and my lifeline.  It had become my only source of peace.

Most days, my husband would walk down the hill to my little plot and try to persuade me to come inside.  “It’s dinner,” he’d say.  “Gabe would probably like it if you could eat with us.”  More often than not, I would wave him away sometimes continuing to hoe, sometimes sinking to the ground, nose against the dirt just breathing.  The house had become something constricting.  An emotional tourniquet, squeezing the very life out of me.

You see, as goal driven, as (meticulous) as I had become outside, I had become equally indolent inside.  Our four small rooms had become filled with piles of laundry, of old magazines and scattered paperbacks, of plates, and spoons, and sippy cups that needed washing.  Many times, I would find myself staring, sometimes for a moment, sometimes for the better part of an hour too overwhelmed, too limp to attack the mess.

The more I stood, the more I stared, the more the laundry, the papers, the dishes began to represent my personal failures.   A few dirty socks might remind me that I wasn’t organized enough or loving enough to be a good mother.  A stack of dishes might indicate that I wasn’t disciplined enough to keep my weight down.  Half-written papers, half-read books would scream to me that I’d never amount to anything, that I would die without any real accomplishments.

Since our son was born, this had been my life.

Even with the solace of the garden, it had become impossible to ignore my depression.  To ignore the fact that making a grocery list had become a Herculean task or that touching my husband made me feel sick and damaged.  I had withdrawn from activities, kept the curtains drawn when I was inside, felt numb when I breastfeed my baby.

Oddly, I also suffered from intense anxieties.   One day I would be curled up on the couch like a salt-sprinkled slug unwilling, unable to talk with anyone.  The next day, I would be so flooded with plans and ideas that I could only pace around the house humming and mumbling to myself.  Amid these plans, these ideas, I also feared that a killer might be watching us.  Or, that I might accidentally drop a knife that would plunge through the heart of our son, killing him.   I would wander through the house void of feeling in my arms or my legs.

It was in that anxious state that I saw the child behind our clothes dryer.

I woke at 6:30 having hit the snooze button way too many times.  I did not make it to the gym.

I went to work and worked too hard.  I had anxiety in the morning.  I drank a lot of coffee.  It probably didn’t help.  We had a half day at school so we could catch up on paper work, but I spent my “free time” in a meeting that I didn’t want to go to.  I didn’t catch up on anything.

I picked Silas up from day care.  He made funny faces and stuck both fists in his mouth when he saw me.  Then he growled.  I had to carry him like a football to the car because he did not want to leave.

We went to my psychiatrist’s.  She made a lot of sense out of the world.  She also changed my medication because I’ve been so god-awful depressed.  She commented that she liked my skirt.

When we got home, I did the dishes.  Silas played on the floor at my feet.  He entertained himself with a box of spaghetti.  I was happy.   He seemed like an angel.

My husband came in with a pot of violets and a deli dinner.  We ate at the table on the back deck.  Pesto pasta, cucumber salad, and a roasted turkey breast.  The turkey was dry, but I didn’t have to cook.  Silas wouldn’t eat because he wanted to run around like a wild beast.  We let him.

Silas refused to be put in pajamas.  With two of us, it was still difficult to pin him down.  But, we succeeded.  We climbed into bed for “snuggle time” and read Can you find the Duck?  It was great fun.  Silas only cried for a minute thirty when we put him in his crib.  Then he babbled for an hour more.

I folded laundry and decided to tidy up the “reading room”.  Then I sat at my desk and pulled out “The Writer’s Tool Box”.

“The Writer’s Tool Box” is a handy-dandy writing kit complete with a timer and little colored sticks with different scenarios on them and cards that look like fortune cards with little sensory phrases and wheels of destiny that really spin.  It looks cool, but is pretty cheesy.

Tonight I decided to play the “Sixth Sense Game”.  I selected three cards by touching each one until I felt a tingle.  (I do that with Scrabble tiles and it generally works.)  I selected:  “the voice of the ex-wife”, “the sound of Marcie’s feet”, and “the taste of Woody Allen’s kiss”.  I almost vomited.

I chose to write about the first card and came up with the following 55 word story:

I found the letter among his things.

“John,” it read. “I should never have trusted you.”

The letter did not mention pregnancy specifically.

Still, there was little left to do but confront him.

I padded down the hall, letter in hand, and opened his office door.

“John,” I said. “I never should have trusted you.”

I’m not terribly impressed with myself.  But, it is 55 words exactly.

Now, I’m typing this.  I will write a bit more and get my Cullen fix.

I am so thrilled to have had a normal day.  For once.

I always chuckled at this little ha-ha because “I am not a dork” is my kind of affirmation. Along with:  I am not a loser.  I am not a cow.  And, I am not destined to be another slug popped and gutted under the iron heel of mediocrity.

When I try on phrases such as: I am hip.  I am sexy.  I am both intelligent and talented and am a virtual giant of creativity.  I just sound like a fraud.

(Yeah, I should also try on the phrase “Even though I’m a language arts teacher, I don’t know a good goddamn about grammar.”  Yes, that explains the odd jumble of colons and periods and the lack of quotation marks or whatever.)

But, you say, you are hip and you are sexy and you are both intelligent, talented, and supremely creative.

Well,  I thank you.  But still…

As of late, trying on new affirmations hasn’t been high on the priority list.

Instead I’ve been toying with a new strain of depression.  I’m not sure what to call it yet, except for “it fucking sucks”.  I cannot possibly imagine how people go through their lives living in this state of pathetic, miserable, zombie-hood.  When I’m not trying to keep a chin up for Silas, I’m sleeping or staring or sleeping and staring if that’s at all possible.

I really should take up TV.
Oh, but I can’t.  Instead I lie on the bed debating whether or not I should watch TV and trying to convince myself that I am not a loser… or a cow… or you get it.  (Even the 4th and final book in the Twilight saga isn’t doing it for me.)

Anyhow, we’re back home.  Silas and I.  I am feeling well enough to be typing this and I’m damn proud of it.  A few weeks ago, I thought I could bite the bullet and use this blog as a journal.  But, I don’t journal.  So, you’ll have to take me when you get me.  So much for fame and glory.

The kitchen isn’t finished but the debris has been removed and now Silas can run through it without any real risk of death and, hoo-rah, we have running water.

We’re desperately broke.

So broke it’s embarrassing.

But, somehow we’re forging on.  And, my parents offered to buy me a new set of tires.  (Thanks Pops.)

What else?  Hmmm…

What’s that?  I am journaling, you say.
Yes, I suppose I am.  Isn’t it dreadfully boring?

Oh yes, it is, you say.  Do you have anything more interesting to spout about?

Well, sure.

Recently, I was talking with a friend who described being the working parent of an 18-35 month old as having a heavy weight constantly pressing on your chest.  I can’t do her description justice because the essence of it was mostly in her physical expression– the strain and weariness of her face, the hopelessness of her hands.  And, while I know that not all parents struggle with this age, I knew exactly what she meant.  There is so little personal time– especially with no family nearby and with no kitchen and between marriage counseling sessions ya-ha-ha.

Still, her frankness really helped.  It made me realize that it’s not just my situation or my mental state or my inferiority that is the catalyst for this depression, this exhaustion, this weight.  On top of it all, parenting is really tough.  Beautiful, very beautiful, but very, very tough.

So, maybe I’m not a worthless parent, a selfish whiner, or a bitch.  Maybe I’m just tired and normal and not a dork.

To close, let me post a dear friend’s poem:  (as you can see smooth transitions are not my thing tonight, but I’m here, yeah, I’m here…)

Anyhow, my friend’s untitled masterpiece:
Each night

I haven’t got

rhythm

or good ideas

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down,

rockin’ down,

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

clean floors

dinner made

a bank account

that shows

I’ve got it made

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

the rockin’ down

I haven’t got

cold cuts,

lean meat,

tomato feet

cold cuts,

pickled beets,

tomato feet.

cold cuts,

wheat bread,

tomato red

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down.

I haven’t got

a favorite spot

friends to call

books to write

on bedroom walls

long late nights

but I’ve got

the rockin’ down

rockin’ down

rockin’ down

– Melisa Ian Toothman (aka Slymillion)

In the meantime, I have been listening to a collection of 55 word short stories about love and death.  The collection itself is not really very good.  But, the idea was inspiring.  Since, I don’t have too much to give, 55 words seemed managable.  

Second Storm 

They had stayed here– in this den– three year’s ago during the ice storm.

They had watched a film, drunk wine, made love– passionately– on the day bed in the middle of the night.

Now she’s here again.  Work clothes packed haphazardly in a suitcase.  Toothpaste and a paperback book.

Alone. 

Wounded and alone.

My Dearest Paul,

Today I found– in the bottom of a box, in the bottom of a closet– some pictures of us from a time when we were just starting out: carefree and full of wonder.  It was during these times that we were so certain that we were meant for one another– when we walked through forests, through the street of New Orleans, through a crowded dance floor in amazement and awe that we’d actually found true love.

I thought that you were the very Universe.  When I looked in your eyes, I found God.

Will we ever find those times again?  It seems like eons since I have even looked in your eyes, swayed with my head rested on your shoulder. Will we ever be so certain and full of wonder?

I hope with this first note that we begin to discover that wonder all over again!

With much hope and love,

Emily

When the Words Come

Drifting off to sleep,
the words come.
They rush at me
like a band of soldiers.
Hustled by adrenaline,
bayonets flailing,
spit and holler
filling their fearful mouths.
I am forced awake.
Forced to pacify them.

While driving,
the words buzz.
They swarm at my eyes,
my ears,
at the very edges of my forehead.
These semantic horse flys,
ready to bite,
that I am all too often
forced to swat away.

In the shower,
they tempt me,
run in little rivulets
down my arms,
between my toes.
I am paralyzed
by the pattern and pitch of them.
These lexical sirens
humming and harmonizing.
As the soap slip-slides
into my eyes.

Yes, the words come at the most inconvenient of times.

I have scribbled on the inside covers of books,
on receipt backs, and birthday cards
in the dark
eyes half open.

I have stood over the bathroom sink,
dripping little lagoons onto the tile floor,
starting sestinas
in eyeliner on the back of a Kotex box.

And, yes,
to your dismay
I have written on napkins
while speeding down the Interstate.
Letting my hand do its magic
while my eyes
keep a steady two-beat rhythm
between the rearview mirror
and the road.

Oh, when the words come.
Whenever they come.
I’ll give anything, just anything, to sate them.

]]> http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/10/a-companion-to-the-companion-poem-revised/feed/ 2 http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/05/when-the-words-come-the-skeleton-of-a-companion-poem/ http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/05/when-the-words-come-the-skeleton-of-a-companion-poem/#comments Thu, 05 Jun 2008 13:42:02 +0000 Administrator http://booknboob.com/blog/2008/06/05/when-the-words-come-the-skeleton-of-a-companion-poem/ Drifting off to sleep,
the words come.
Also while driving,
or in the shower.
Whenever it may be inconvenient
to hold a pen and paper.

Yes,
I have written
while speeding down the Interstate,
letting my hand do its magic
while my eyes
keep a steady rhythm
from the rearview mirror
to the road.