Last week I told my shrink I was ready to take a break- at least until I get pregnant again. I’ve had a couple of breakthroughs and thought I was ready to fly the nest. Or the coop. Or whatever.

 

Well it all would have been fine and good, except I forgot that my main pastime is complaining about stuff that I won’t change. This is a hobby that requires either a captive audience (shrink, dog, deaf person) or the world’s most empathetic sweetheart (my husband). I fired my shrink, my dog has learned to roll her eyes at me, and I don’t currently know anyone who’s deaf. Plus, deaf people can usually read lips. I have two or three friends who don’t try and run screaming or punch me in the face when I start my high pitched whining, but I am afraid they won’t be able to take it much longer. I’m pretty sure one met me for lunch the other day with cotton stuffed in her ears.

 

In an effort to spare Tom G from wanting to get a separate apartment from me to escape the complaining, I’m going to try and stop. I mean my god, if I can stop eating Super Pretzels and Nacho Cheese surely I can cut back a little on the constant complaining.

 

My plan is to come up with a really great plan, then implement the plan. Then, I will follow through with the implemented plan for several weeks and months until it is a fully ingrained habit. People will say “Wow, I’m so impressed by how you never complain about anything.” I’ll smile and nod and be very humble, but if they ask how I do it I’ll tell them about my incredible system. Maybe I’ll write a book about it and go on a book tour and then the book with be made into a movie and Zooey Deschanel will play me.

I shuffled past the pile of laundry for the fifth time that day. Bleary eyed, nap-crumpled, I yawned noisily and kicked at the spreading pile on my way to the bathroom.

 

“You loser.”

 

I spun around and stared at the pile incredulously.

 

“What did you say?” I asked. The pile was silent. I slammed open the washing machine door and started shoving clothes in. I didn’t bother sorting colors or temperatures, just crammed the washer as full of the pile as possible. I added soap, pressed buttons, and felt satisfied to hear the water fill the tub.

 

A couple of days went by and I had forgotten all about the laundry. Then I heard a noise from the washing machine. It sounded like a voice- like a muffled, mocking voice. I gathered my courage and peeked under the washing machine lid. The old pile of laundry was crusty now and pressed against the sides of the tub. “Goddamnit,” I thought “I forgot to dry this stuff”.

 

“Pshhh. Idiot” I heard the pile say.

 

“What did you call me?” I yelled into the washing machine. No reply. My dog came out of the bedroom to investigate the commotion. She gave me an irritated look for disrupting another nap. If you nap all the time, you can’t really get mad at people for interrupting you, but she’s very demanding. She lay back down near my feet with a pointed sigh. I put a little more soap in the machine and pressed START again. An hour later I rushed over and stuffed the clothes into the dryer with great satisfaction.
“No pile of laundry is going to call ME an idiot” I told the laundry. I fell asleep to the rhythmic hum of the dryer.

 

When I woke up I had to rush around and get ready for a party. There was no time to consider judgmental laundry or confrontational dust-bunnies or my coffee table besieged by crumbs and half-empty glasses. I had to leave my apartment, and that takes a lot of effort. It wasn’t until I needed matching socks that I was forced to consider the dryer. “F*ck it” I decided. I wore tights.

 

Then next day I woke up and went straight to the dryer. I pulled the now-cold-but-clean pile out and dumped it on my couch. The light of the television winked merrily as I carefully folded sheets, towels, jeans, mismatched socks, tangled underwear and bras and jeans. The normally segregated clothes had fraternized in the washing and drying, and were left a little pinker and a little dingier because of it. I stacked the clothes in neat piles and sorted the piles according to drawer placement, then sat down to appraise my work.

 

The laundry, no longer a pile but a proud stack, said nothing.

 

I intended to put the clothes away that day, but you know how it goes. The minutes melt into hours which slog into days and the next thing you know it’s Wednesday and You’ve been getting dressed in your living room because that’s where the clean laundry is. A couple more days went by and the stacks dwindled until only clean sheets were left. I hauled them into the bedroom and after displacing the dog again and whining to my husband for help, I changed the sheets. The old sheets topped the pile of dirty clothes swarming around the laundry machine. The scene looked eerily familiar, and I began to fear the pile again.

 

More days went by. The laundry pile became a laundry hill, then a laundry mountain. There was an avalanche and the dog took to napping on the remnants of the pile. I ignored it and listened to NPR in the bathtub and lied on the living room floor with the dust bunnies and read books. Then I heard it again, clearer this time, “You loser.” The voice was coming from the pile. I looked over my book and stared at the mass of dirty clothes. “What would your mother think?” It sneered “What would your mother-in-law think? You’re pathetic.” The dog got off the laundry, looked around suspiciously, and joined me in the living room. I got up, kicked all the dirty laundry into the closet and pulled the door closed. “I think both my mothers would still be proud of me, asshole” I said to the laundry as I squeezed the door shut in it’s face.

Now that I’m not bone-crushingly depressed anymore, I’m finding my creative reserve very very depleted. It was easy to write about being sad, especially because I try to act normal when I’m out and about so it’s an important outlet. But I’m determined to stop rolling around in my grief-sty so I’m writing about having nothing to write. Here is a list on uninteresting observations I have made today:

 

My dog likes all kinds of pettings, including but not limited to: pats, skin scratches, tradition pets, and massages.

 

February is a short month. Soon it will be March.

 

Tom said he thinks our doorlady lives in the building. When pressed for more information, he had none. I cannot determine if he was making a joke or just had a hunch. I’ll have to remember to ask him.

 

I am neither a late person nor an early person. I am just annoyingly inconsistent.

 

Wow. That’s all I’ve got today. This is going to be rough. I’d better buy a book about writing, or take a writing class. Wait, yes! Yes that’s it! I’m going to take a writing class people. Holy crap that is another big relief. Look at me! DOING THINGS. Apparently this is the first time in my life that I’m realizing how you do stuff: 1) isolate the problem 2) try to solve it. Amazing! I’m not kidding! I think I’m having another good mood swing.

During my current mood swing, I have decided I’m finished mourning. I don’t have anymore sadness left in me, so now I’m back to normal. Phew. That was challenging, but now it’s over and I’m sure I’m be completely fine from here on out.

 

In accordance with my new mood (however long it may last) I would like to write about my amazing new diet. It’s so easy and fun, just about anyone can do it! Now here’s the system:

 

First, become a compulsive exerciser. Get up earlier and earlier in the morning to take classes at the gym, and jog when you walk your dog at night- even when it’s snowy and you’re wearing snow boots and a huge puffy coat and people that you lumber past mistake you for a homeless lady.

 

Next, find yourself a competent mental health professional and spend thousands of dollars on therapy. I prefer a psychiatrist, because they meet my personal needs, but you can choose any reputable therapist. Make a weekly appointment and allow yourself to puke out your neurosis and phobias, thus appearing normal the rest of the week.

 

Third: Visit a Chinese herbalist and purchase various herbs and tinctures for approximately $350. Put complete faith in the effectiveness of herbs, even when required to fill your belly-button with strange smelling concoction.

 

Finally, join Weight Watchers and bask in your new topic of obsession- points. Take great pleasure in eating all your fruits and vegetables and remember that the point of food is to fuel your body and mind, not to be used as an emotional-hole-filler.

 

This amazing combination of self-help remedies will remind you that you’re not powerless, stuck, or a turd.

I started doing my taxes this morning.

 

Personal info: Did you have a baby is 2010? Yes.

 

About your dependents: To qualify as a dependent a person must meet all six requirements, one of which is: Has the person lived in your home for at least six months?

 

No, my dependent only lived six days. He never came home with us. I would give everything- my sight, my hearing, my arms and legs, my own life- to have had him living in my home for six months. I would give everything to have just one day with him at home- no machines, no wires, just Tom G, me, and our son.

 

But that’s not what we had. And what we had was precious still. I’m crying and my heart hurts and I’m scared and I’m crumpled up and crushed, but I’m not mad. Life is painful and beautiful at the exact same time.

Ok, now that I have remembered I can control the regular part of my depression, I’m in a better spot. I joined Weight Watchers last night and feel so much better. I’ve got a plan, I know I can do it, I know it works. When I was dieting on my own, every muck up was reinforcing the nagging voice in my head that thinks I’m a loser or an idiot or a bad mom. It’s like I was deliberately hanging around in a corner of self-loathing.

 

Well not anymore my friends! Not anymore! I’ve joined a community! I’ve given myself tools to succeed. It’s a lot like training a dog actually. You can’t just let the dog wander around deciding for itself how to fit in in your home. You have to give it guidelines and opportunities for success. Then you can’t yell at it when it has an accident here or there. You just keep giving it love.

 

So today is day one. I feel outrageously relieved and hopeful and in control. I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow, or Sunday (weekends are the worst), but today is good.

 

My grief can sit and stew and simmer. But my depression is going to get smacked down. And then maybe I’ll have the confidence to get another bean in my belly. Maybe I’ll stop thinking of my womb as Tommy Jr’s house, and be able to welcome the idea of another baby living in there.

 

I want to be better, I really do. It’s just easier to be sad, it feels so natural. But I’ve known for quite a while now that the hardest thing is usually the thing you need most.

I am depressed. I’ve been trying to hide it, or push it down, but it’s just there. It’s sitting on my chest and squeezing all the good out of me. I’m not interested in anything anymore. All my energy is spent on getting out of bed, showering, and acting normal. I think if I can just keep acting normal soon I’ll feel normal. But it’s not working so far. I’m so depressed my bones hurt.

 

I’m doing everything I can think of and following as much advice as possible: running, yoga, shrink, Chinese herbs, support group, connecting with other baby-loss moms, trying to socialize with my friends. It’s not working. I’m just stuck feeling like a faker.

 

But I was thinking today that I might be approaching this from the wrong angle. It’s actually more likely that my depression is like the Federal budget. My grief for Tommy Jr is like defense spending, which isn’t accounted for when calculating the deficit. So military spending might be gigantic, but it’s separate and really alongside the rest of the federal budget. The two items seem to have the same priority level, taking into account historical ebbs and flows. They are separate, but they have similar characteristics.

 

I guess I’m taking the scenic drive to explain that I’m just god damn depressed, and I also really god damn miss my baby. So maybe I can work on just the regular depression, and not focus on the insurmountable grief of losing my baby. I’m pretty sure that I need some exposure to sunlight, more exercise, forced socialization, and forced volunteering. I say “forced” only because I’m so depressed I have to force myself to do most things. I remember now, just today I really realized, that I was like this before too. I was depressed in high school, in college, after college well into my 20’s. Then I decided I had had enough, and I started saying yes to people’s invitations. I started letting myself be busy, and not allowing myself to mourn my relationship with my couch. I wrote thank you notes. I initiated plans. I showed up.

 

I don’t mean to make this another weepy, uplifting post. I just have been stunned by the enormity of my depression, and I have to spend a lot of mental energy keeping it intellectual. Once you let these things enter the pit of your stomach- you’re done for. You’re left quivering under dirty sheets for weeks on end, terrified every time your cell phone rings. In your brain, you can remember that depression is just another part of the human condition and it’s nothing to fear- it’ll pass. So that’s how I realized that the depression is multi-facited, and was relieved to recognized one of the pieces.

 

Alright then. I’m going to start small, but I’m going to get back into my normal life suit. I know that my grief is not going to be affected by the current administration.

A couple of days after I posted my first essay about running, I got a text message from my friend Dan. Well, I didn’t know it was Dan at first because when I dropped my old iPhone into the toilet I lost a lot of phone numbers. Anyway, Dan texted me that he had left a book for me with my doorman. After peeling myself off the couch and retrieving it, I stared at the cover of “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” by Haruki Murakami and felt immediately intimidated. Haruki looked fit, and he look self-assured, and he looked like a natural.

 

I do not look like Haruki.

 

But my philosophy has always been to read all books given to me with intention. Books recommendations have a way of revealing insight into your friends that you might have otherwise overlooked. And Dan is a very special person. When he is interested in something, he learns about it, then he does it. He does stuff all the time. He and his wife Elizabeth- one of my all-time dearest friends- make their own sausages, make their own ice cream, make their own anything they want. These people are doers. And when they do something, they do it well. So I started reading Murakami’s book.

 

At first I felt wildly frustrated. This is a guy who’s life’s philosophy seems to be: Decide on doing something. Work outrageously hard. Become awesome at it.

 

That is not my philosophy. I’m more like: Complain and complain about wanting to do something until your friends and family wish they didn’t have to answer the phone when you call. Wait for an opportunity. When one comes along, blow it up spectacularly because you are scared and unsure of yourself.

 

I couldn’t relate to Haruki’s motivation or success. Then, about half-way through the book he describes a moment where his body doesn’t cooperate, despite the practice and hard work. So, he practices more and works harder. Then he gets better. He never loses confidence. In fact, it’s almost like he doesn’t need confidence, because he’s got a gigantic reserve of perseverance.

 

I think I might have a little perseverance. Not make-your-own-ice-cream perseverance, but go-to-the-gym-every-day-instead-of-lie-on-my-floor-and-cry-perseverance. That should count for something. I mean, I know it counts for something.

 

So, Mr. Murakami, I get it now. Keep trying. That’s the real motto. I can do that. And big thanks to Dan, who knew I’d get the point, even when I complained about the book that time I saw him.

I think I generate a lot of emotion for one smallish person. I mean I’m denser right now than I have been in the past- despite inconsistent efforts I still haven’t lost all my baby weight. I don’t even thing it still qualifies as baby weight, it’s more like emotional padding. The point is sometimes, most times, I feel like I’m buzzing and crackling with emotion. I was sitting in my apartment today worrying that I wouldn’t be able to keep myself affixed to the couch- like any moment I’d be lifted up into the air by the ferocity of my own angst.

 

Was I always like this? I never know anymore. I can’t find where the grief ends and I begin. I think I write a variation of this concern about once a week.

 

The pain goes in waves, but when it’s present it’s physical. I can’t imagine someone sitting with me not noticing it, or smelling it, or hearing a buzz or something. When the pain passes the relief is palpable. Every emotion hits me like I’m becoming self-aware for the first time in my species’ evolutionary history. I can’t believe anyone has ever felt like this before. But I know that I’m not the first, and I’m not the last, and this isn’t the worst, and that it’s not really going to end, and it’s not going to kill me. But it does nibble at me. It’s a school of well-fed piranhas just checking what’s floating in their river.

 

I made it through the weekend. It was a little challenging- I locked my keys in the car Friday night during rush-hour while I went to pick up Ramona from daycare. AAA came in juuuust under two hours. But the rest of the weekend was a mixture of fun and tolerable. Tom came home late Sunday night and we saw a new doctor Monday. I don’t know what to do, every doctor I’ve seen seems competent and kind-hearted. So did my last doctor. But I need to know how these people perform in emergencies, because that’s what we’re worried about. And it’s impossible to know if they’ll be patient when I’m freaking out, if they’ll listen to me when I’m crying, or if they’ll trust me to know my own body.

 

I guess I’m feeling frustrated all around. The good news is that I made it to the 6:30 am Yoga class today, then ran for 40 minutes after. At least I have that time to turn my brain off. At least I have Tom G back!

Tom left today to visit his uncle in Santa Barbara. He’s still on winter break and it made perfect sense for him to take a solo trip to see his family. I was sure I could stay home by myself…until yesterday. I spend most of the day whining softly: “Don’t go, please, don’t go. Mew Mew.” But in the (tiny) normal part of my brain I knew it was a good idea and I was happy he was able to go.

 

This morning, Ramona and I dropped him off at the Blue Line and she whimpered as we drove away. I wanted to whimper too but her whimpering was so loud I felt like I couldn’t compete. She and I often wind each other up by trying to top the others anxiety, insecurity, sadness, or excitement. It’s a pretty good diversion actually, even though she usually wins.

 

Tom being gone presents many problems. First, and most obvious, is that my interest in human interaction slumps radically if you take him out of the equation. Secondly, unless I’m closely supervised I eat wall to wall pretzels. I’m talking about pretzel bagel and cream cheese for breakfast, turkey sandwich with pretzel bread for lunch, microwavable pretzels and nacho cheese for dinner, and chocolate covered pretzels for desert. It may seem like a nutritious meal plan, and it probably is for sumo wrestlers or Olympic Swimmers, but for 5’3″ women in their 30’s it’s not very practical. Without the all-pretzel diet, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to feed myself.

 

Another challenge is my passion for naps. I’m pretty sure I’m going to go home after work and try and take at least a 30 minute snooze. Again, that’s a good plan for kindergartners or people in the 20’s who suffered through a day of work with a hangover and get to reward themselves with a nap. But for regular people fighting depression and chronic insomnia…it’s a bad idea.

 

Finally, well, Tom’s sweet smile and spirit keeps me from crying all the time. I don’t know if I’ll have the strength not to indulge myself and just cry and cry until he comes home. I don’t know if I’ll be able to avoid the disturbing feeling that losing Tommy Jr was my fault, that I should have been better or smarter or healthier. I’m crying as I write this for god’s sake!!

 

The bad feelings are like roaches. Just when I think they’re gone, I’ll turn the lights on and catch them scattering out of the corner of my eye. But when my Light is on a trip to visit his Uncle, I’m afraid the thought-roaches will crawl into my bed and nest in my ears when I’m sleeping. Maybe I’ll nap with Kleenex wadded in my earholes.