December 15, 2012

I am sitting at my dining room table on this dreary Saturday morning, my ubiquitous coffee by my side and a beautiful child peacefully asleep on the couch. My stomach feels like the hollow quake of fear when you receive a phone call at three in the morning. Or when a parasitic knot of sadness refuses to break from your heart.

I have nothing snarky to say this morning. I won’t use my typical salty language and I won’t poke fun at my former husband.

I just feel empty and sad. And weary. And actually kind of frustrated. Because AGAIN.

I was going shopping yesterday afternoon because I had a few free hours to buy the Kid a bunch of Christmas presents from the Babushka. I didn’t have it in me to continue. I went home and threw a load of whites in the washing machine and cried.  I watched some of the frenetic news on television. I wanted the afternoon to end so I could pick up the Kid and hold him and not let go.

Usually I pick him up a little after dismissal so I can avoid the crazy lines, but today I was there early, one of the first in line. I wanted my Kid and I wanted to go home.

He walked down the sidewalk toward my car and the bounce in his too cool teenage step was not there. Neither was his smile. All I got was a “Hi Mom” and he plunked down in his seat and relinquished himself to my giant mama bear hug and didn’t care that all his friends saw. He held my hand during the short drive home. His hand was so cold.

“Mom, I need to call Dad.”

He was acutely feeling a necessary conversation of relief and reassurance from his father, an elementary school teacher. He needed to know his little twin brothers, golden-haired mischief-makers who think the Kid hung the moon, were safe and free from the awful news of the world.

We also had our own conversation.

“Kid, sometimes the world is not defined as good and evil. It’s not that easy. Sometimes it’s about being mentally healthy and mentally unhealthy.”

We then had a long talk about trying to keep all of our parts healthy, including our minds. Hopefully I explained adequately the need for self-awareness, that there is no shame in asking for help, that depression runs in both sides of the family, that we must be a lot of different things- aware, kind, empathetic, proactive, that we must do what is right, kind, ethical, and moral. That we must live our lives in the finest way possible. That life is not about stuff or anger. That life can actually be very simple.

The conversation I wanted to have was deciding what time we were going to see Lincoln and did he feel hamburgerish for dinner or sushi-ish. I wanted to talk about his concert he performed that afternoon and that an early Christmas present was just delivered for him.

But I talked to him about the hard stuff and I told him for the zillionth time that he can always talk to his Mom and Dad about ANYTHING. Or Kathy, or Jennifer, or Suzanne, or Raymond, or ANY of the people that love him because we are all in this together because our support system is just that strong and loving.

So I sit here this morning. I hear a snore from the other room and a drip in the kitchen that I need to fix. I feel uneasy about tagging this post because my intent is not self-serving. I may get a couple views. I may not. But I would like folks to read it. I would like to see a few people dig deeper- myself included- and try to set in motion actions that will prevent December 14, 2012 and far too many other similar dates from EVER happening again.

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