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.
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