The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

I found this little bit in my files…okay not exactly in my files…but on a crumpled envelope…though I do aspire to have files and be that organized. So let’s just say I found it in my files!

“Wrestling depression.
My depression. To its knees. Easy as pie. Um.
‘Cause it’s not severe. Just slight. A delicate throb.
The cause? I’m not precisely sure.
Maybe just that I have a difficult time with motherhood even though I love Elsie more than anything.
I also like to accomplish.
I have grandiose dreams of accomplishment.
So my mind is constantly racing. All frenetic. Project to project.
The depression then: lack of completion.
Just slight. You don’t have to call the crazy police.
And I don’t need drugs.
Well, I might. Need. Drugs. But I probably won’t take them.
Just yet.
Just cause.
This is not a point of discussion.
Are you judging me?
Or right, that’s the other thing I’m wrangling. My insecurities. My perfectionism, which leads to fear of failure.
I’d like to embrace failure like Bill Clinton or Bill Gates or Bill somebody-or-other. Whatever. Whomever. I’m sure both of them, all of them would have profound and moving things to say about the benefits of failing and picking oneself up…surving the ‘honte.’ Maybe not ‘honte.’ Shame though?
I prefer the French word ‘honte.’ It has more breadth. Reflects my feelings more elegantly. ‘Shame’ is a narrow word.
Um.
On the positive side, my empathy is expanding. People who lost their jobs in the recession and had to live in tent cities, that Californian father who killed himself and his family over debt desperation—I actually understand…”

There you have it. My depression. For the moment I have it securely pinned down in a rear naked choke. It’s a vulnerable hold, but nonetheless effective.

Not to worry, Mom!