birthday

As one of my best friends, A, has said, "Those Catholics really did a number on you." She's referring to my guilt, over practically everything. And this week, I felt serious guilt about my struggle with depression. Because I had a damn good week. And for a lot of it, I just wanted to cry. 

I don't remember Monday. Not what I did or didn't do, nothing. It would have been my father's birthday. His 80th birthday. P's dad is 57. P's grandmother is only 8 years older than my dad would have been. I remember my dad's last birthday, when he turned 60. My mom threw a big surprise party for him. She rented out a banquet hall and everything. I don't know if she knew that would be his last, or if because of his health she knew it would be his last milestone birthday, at least, or if his impending death always haunted her. But 8 months after that party he was dead. But at that party I was giddy. I had kept the secret, and my parents were proud of me for that. The very next day was my own birthday, and I would be 6. My friends were there. My father was the center of the world for the night. And as I ran and danced around the banquet hall I had no idea. Did he? Did anyone? I was just getting to a place where I felt comfortable asking my mom these questions. And I still have them. 

You lose days in depression. And it depresses me more to know that I remember a September 24th 20 years ago better than a September 24th 4 days ago. 

Tuesday was my birthday. 26. P told me to do whatever I wanted that day, to "take a bath and watch Netflix and drink a bottle of wine at noon" if I wanted. I read a lot instead. I checked my Facebook for birthday greetings. I received happy texts. I ran 5 miles. I had a pretty good day. I met P downtown that night and we went to a wine bar and out for sushi. 

Wednesday I trekked out to Logan Square to meet a good friend at a pie shop. We sat and talked for about 4 hours, which seems to happen with the two of us. It was a welcomed change to sitting at home. I put on real pants, so that was good and different. This northside snob found some redeeming qualities about the neighborhood, even. :o)

Last night was good. P and I had tickets to a show I have literally been wanting to see for about 10 years. It originated in Chicago, went on to NY to win a Tony, and when I learned they were reprising it this fall, I about jumped out of myself. Thankfully, it lived up to the expectation. But part of me was in a cloud, after a day of puttering around the house, hoping to get some inspiration to do anything but watch Netflix or scroll Pinterest. I did the dishes and took the dog out. That was about it. 

I know that if I run in the morning, it gets me going and I feel better. I can have a productive day. Before running this morning I had a near anxiety attack thinking about the day in front of me, hours of time to waste in wallowing. But then I got up and ran 5 miles. And now I am sitting in a coffee house in my neighborhood, writing. I am going to try and edit some previous writing for submission to lit mags. And though it is small and makes me feel like an invalid to admit it as a triumph, I am really proud of myself for making the decision to just get up. 

I had such a wonderful week--friends, my love, sushi, theatre, wine, good coffee, good reading. I renewed my license and the photo doesn't suck. Lots of good things. And I feel serious guilt for not reveling in it and loving every moment. in 2010 I thought I had turned a corner. I had a new, great job. I had started dating P. We entertained friends often. But now I know that it was a manic break, and as happy as I was, I am just a person who struggles with depression. It's simple. My mother's death threw me for a new low, and I'm crawling out. But I can't compare my mood to 2010, because I'll fall short most days. I have to take it "one day at a time" as everyone seems to say, no matter the issue at hand. But I suppose we say it so indiscriminately because it's fucking true. 

It starts with running.

To Live

Twenty-six years ago, right now, my mom was at an appointment with her OB/GYN. It was my due date. And then it was quickly my birthday, when her doctor ordered an emergency c-section. Yanked out at 3:15PM, the story goes, they thought I was stillborn. Cord around my neck,  a dichotomous noose of life-building nutrients. Blue in the face. Not breathing. My mother was put out. My father was there. They told him I was gone. But then I wasn't. But then they noticed that my legs were severely twisted. Then I was whisked away to another hospital, since the one into which I'd been born did not have a NICU. Then I came home, and the real fun started.

When I look through my baby albums, I realize how insane that time was for my parents. I was a mess. They were told I'd likely never walk. Then throw in my dad's open heart surgery somewhere during my mom's pregnancy, and then her hip replacement before I was two? Yeah. The Sweeneys were a disaster.

But today I'm okay. Relatively, I guess. 26 years ago I wasn't breathing and I ran 5 miles this morning. I just ate some Thai food. I woke in a foul mood, missing my mother, wishing for her annual call singing Happy Birthday. I started my period. I have to go to the DMV. What am I doing with my life? Blah blah blah. But I felt better after running, and after discovering a note P left for me on our bed. And while my mom won't be calling today, many people have. And I think about how I came into this world, medical professionals hurriedly extricating me from my mother, from the only home I'd ever known, being strangled by the connection.

Sometimes you have to let go to live.

Run

I bobbed on the steps into the pool and my mother held her arms out to instill confidence. I could swim. I had taught myself that summer. But I had always been a nervous kid, afraid of loud noises and shadows and my own death. My mom was extolling the benefits of swimming.

"It's the best exercise for my arthritis," she offered. This was supposed to be reassuring.

"Do I have that?!"

"No, I do. You don't."

"Then why do I need to worry about it?"

"You don't. I do. I'm sorry."

"Am I going to get it?"

Pause.

Pause.

"You could."

Since that day, and I think I was in about the second grade at that point, I worried. Every time my muscles ached, every time I felt stiff. Do I have it? Did I get it? I had already inherited a rare joint disorder from my father that necessitated casts and braces and physical therapy and surgery by the time I was six years old. I was worried. And I prized my physical ability. I rode my bike, I started martial arts. I danced. For a kid that was never supposed to walk, I did okay. My mother's RA symptoms began in her early twenties and after I made it past that time, I felt less concerned. Until she died from congestive heart failure.

I began exercising again last week. It has been a while. I walk more than most people I know, because I live in a city with no car. Going to the grocery store is a mile round-trip, carrying my loot. I have a dog who goes out three times a day. Walking to and from my nearest el stop is about the same. In a given day I'll walk several miles. But last week I started running on the elliptical, running away from two parents who died by age 63 of heart failure; from RA that WebMD tells me can be delayed or slowed by exercise; from my unknown medical history since my mother was adopted. I run.

"Going to Carolina in My Mind"

I am hanging some photos and getting some chores done and select "folk rock" for Pandora to churn out some tunes as my backdrop. I am in my relatively new house, over seven years into my life as a Chicagoan, but when I hear James Taylor, I am no longer. I am in an Indianapolis kitchen, the sun cascading through an open sliding door in summer. Meats and summer squash sizzle on the grill just past the screen and I'm home. I am home.

James Taylor was often the soundtrack to my former life. He would sing us full, along with Gordon Lightfoot and Tom Petty, as we passed the mushroom rice and the beer supply dwindled. I realize now that when I think of "home" I am usually thinking of my former in-laws home. As I've detailed previously on this blog, I grew up with my ex-husband. By the time we were married, his sisters were my sisters, we had holiday traditions and inside jokes, and I'd passed many lazy summer days in just this fashion. They were never "my in-laws" or "his family" but simply "my family." And I miss them still, though my divorce papers were filed years ago and I have a new set of in-laws, even.

In the winter, they heated their home with a wood burning stove, and I'd return to my mother's house smelling of that dry air, my hair full of static and smoke. Their kitchen table was tiny, but we were prone to sitting in laps and sharing chairs anyway. I think it would be difficult for P to imagine me doing any of that. And I'm sure he wishes he would see me do it with his family. Someday, I may. It's not as if I don't want that. But before I can, I have to stop desperately wanting to gather around that particular dining table with those particular people. I have to grieve that loss. Replacement isn't the way to achieve contentment.

It was my fault. I filed for divorce. It was my fault. I could have kept them, could be sitting there still. I could have been moderately happy. But I wouldn't have P. And as soon as I realize that, I know that I made the right choice.

10:04 PM

My therapist has said repeatedly that my circumstances are strange, that I've not had an ordinary childhood, and other such sentiments. But I think that when someone finds your lived reality bizarre, it is often hard to concur. After all, it's all I know.

I sort of understood her a few nights ago.

Cleaning out our guest room, I had to move boxes taken from my mother's house. I didn't want to go through them yet, but a few things caught my eye. There was a file folder, and I opened it, wondering if I would stumble upon some important paperwork. I did. They were 4 different death certificates for members of my family.

A great-uncle who died when I was about 8; my mother's parents, only one of which I met and she died when I was 4; and my father who died when I was 6. There they were, filed by my mother, also dead now. All neat, all put away. All telling a story about another person I did not really know. We were clearing out the guest room so P's sister could move in. She's going to school in Chicago and is staying with us for about a month until her dorm opens. And I was struck by the juxtaposition. Making way for P's family, and moving the scraps of mine. Photos and death certificates. Military honors and rosaries. Objects that held meaning for people I do not know but who were instrumental in my existence. Who were they? It begs the question, Who am I?

My therapist described me as this last branch on a dying tree. And now, I'm being grafted onto P's family tree. But that's not an easy transition. No matter how this new tree suits me, the feeling of being lifted from my trunk, from having vague memories of knowledge of leaves as they fell, leaves me feeling less than whole. Less than stable.

I doubt I will ever forget receiving my mother's death certificate in the mail. You know the drill. You come home from work, open your mail nonchalantly. And suddenly, an official document was staring me down. My mother's full name, her stats, all neatly typed. And at the top, Time of Death. I don't know why this caught me so, but I couldn't stop staring at it. 10:04 PM. What was I doing at 10:04 PM? It was 9:04 my time. Where was I? Had I felt differently? Had I been laughing? Had I been thinking of her? Was she actually dead at 10:00 PM, but they called in four minutes later? The specificity got me. 10:04 PM. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

It's a lot to find. It's a lot to digest.