I went supermarket shopping yesterday.
Eggs. Milk. A bottle of wine.
I had the day off and babysitting lined up for a couple hours. No toddler to wrangle, no rush, no hurry, no pressure.
No pressure.
And I could barely get myself to push the cart through the supermarket.
The urge to curl up in a corner of an aisle and just cry was almost overwhelming. The urge to simply disappear. Or hope to disappear.
But I didn’t. Mostly because aisles don’t have corners but also because that’s crazy. And I’m not a one year old. I can’t succumb to my emotions. No matter how overwhelming they are in the moment. I’m a responsible adult who has a real one year old to take care of, to buy food for, to go and pick up from babysitting when I’m done.
No disappearing allowed.
Also — physics.
But that’s how it is sometimes. No rhyme, no “reason”. Sometimes everything, anything at all is too much. The air thick and heavy. Not because things are hectic or stressed, or my plate is too full. Those things can happen, but this is not that.
This is when you reach the end of the endless to do list, the end of the day, the end of distractions, turn the corner out of a busy moment and a room buzzing with people and feel gravity multiply.
When there’s no pressure.
There’s nothing.
One of my front tyres has a slow leak. I’ve had several flats in the past few weeks.
Every couple days I find myself at a gas station fighting with semi functional air pumps trying to avoid an emergency tyre change. Every morning I glance and check. Is it ok to drive on? Soft? Flat? Often I doubt myself. I can’t quite tell.
I felt a strange sense of comradery with my leaky soft tyre the other day as I left the office and made my obligatory glance to make sure we were ok.
Have we pumped ourselves up enough to keep going? Is there enough pressure to make it through the day? Or will we find ourselves stranded somewhere, in the middle of the countryside, or a supermarket aisle, deflated and questioning the basics of how to keep going?
This feeling isn’t new to me.
I remember sitting on my mother’s bed and sighing to her “I feel depressed”. I wasn’t being melodramatic. I was just a kid going to mum with an ache in the pit of my stomach who wanted to feel better. Only it wasn’t a stomach ache. I don’t know how old I was but it must have been before the full swing of puberty hit, before I secluded myself into the cocoon of hormone fueled teenage-hood where mentioning anything of substance to your parents is tantamount to sacrilege.
I don’t recollect what she said. I don’t have any other details to fill out that memory, other than the feeling. I remember the feeling… of gravity multiplied. Of even breathing feeling like a labour of necessity that you have to convince your mind to go along with. A brick sitting on your chest. A general miasma of hopelessness, pointlessness.
This feeling isn’t new to me.
“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
I know nothing about Kurt Vonnegut except for this quote of his that I stumbled across and saved many years ago.
And, over those years, I’ve taken his words to heart, holding onto and celebrating periods of happiness almost desperately.
Because of this I know…I remind myself… this is just a season.
Just a year ago these feelings were a faded, yellowed memory in a journal. Well… several journals, to be honest.
I’ve learnt to expect this shift of tides. This cycle of seasons.
But the reality of it is always more difficult than the memory. The slow vague downhill slide, the gradual daunting dim of twilight, the lonely uncertainty of waiting in the darkness of night for dawn to break. You can use all the flowery, poetic language in the world to try to describe it but all it is really is hard.
It’s fucking hard.
Some days are better than others.
And, based on experience, eventually enough good days will string together in a row and you’ll wake up and realize with a deep sense of relief — I’m ok. I’m ok.
You’re ok.
Like getting over a horrible vague prolonged cold.
But until then I wake up and remind myself that I can make it to the end of today.
One day.
I can do one day at a time.
One more aisle of the supermarket.
One more email.
One more trip to the gas station to pump my tyre up.
And some days will be better than others. Cling to those days.
‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
And one day, soon, the night will be a memory.
And memories are good because it means you made it through to the other side.
Which, sadly, is more than some can say.
(This post also available on Steemit.com)
