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The Gift of Depression

"The enemy is a very good teacher." the Dalai Lama


Love me Forever

In the early morning hours, she wrestles with thoughts of hopelessness. The night has been long and her sleep, restless. This is such a different place, a new landscape that she navigates. Never in her mind did she imagine she’d be dealing with the demon of depression. She breathes deeply.

Inviting the invader closer, she whispers, “Let’s dance.” Observing the heaviness of her previous thoughts, she shifts them and gives thanks to “the great mystery” for all that she has been blessed with. The demon quickly takes a step forward, as if challenging her, and she twirls around him like Cinda-fuckin-rella. Starting breakfast, her heart feels as if it’s going to jump out of her chest and land pathetically on the kitchen floor. Checking her pulse, it seems normal. She breathes deeply.

Making her way to each of her children, she gently shakes them and whispers, “Good morning.” Often, this takes several attempts before they actually rise. Peaceful sleep is a difficult thing to disrupt and she does her best to take in the angelic serenity of being present to the transition. Pure joy. Again, the demon persuasively moves in—she leaps in a different direction. With her children stirring, the day begins. They remind her of roosters with all their noise at such an early hour. She breathes deeply.

Brewing coffee, she doesn’t drink it. It seems wasteful though she rationalizes—the grounds are for her garden. This is part of her medicine. The auroma soothes her but the caffeine only agitates the lurking panic. It’s poison for the rising anxiety demanding that she turn to her inner-self. Since the demon entered the scene, “It’s my turn,” is a statement she often hears. Opting for chamomile tea, she hugs the mug with her fingers, warming them. She breathes deeply.

As the tea steeps, she sits with her children around a circular table. They speak of random things while eating. She sips, they chew. Soon the table is cleared. There is laughter in the business of dressing and grooming, and there is yelling, not to mention the poor door that gets frequent poundings. The bathroom seems the most targeted place for mayhem. Oh, and the front passenger’s seat. She breathes deeply.

After her children have established who gets the front seat, belts are secured, the radio turned on, and the wheels start-a-turnin. They are dropped at school with a parting kiss. And sometimes—they don’t want one. Although she has long surrendered to that first forsaken kiss, she still sighs when it happens, if only in her mind. When the last door is shut, she turns the radio off, stares ahead, and proceeds forward. She breathes deeply.

The silence is welcome. Driving home, she listens to the beat of a drum, it’s in her head and she can feel the pulse in her ears, though no one else would be able to hear it. She listens closely and deciphers that her heart deserves her full attention. Placing her mind in time-out, she rocks slowly with this rhythm. Sensing lyrics in the back ground, she starts chanting, “Love me Forever, Love me Forever, Love me Forever.” Self-love wasn’t even a concept until she began dancing with the demon of depression. Now it’s a priority, as if her life depended on it. Thanking her dance partner, she breathes deeply.

© 2017 Tyrse Fayewood

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