Daddy’s Depressed and She Knows

I have a collection of irrational fears — I keep them in my pockets. In my messenger bag. In the glove compartment of my antique car that’s supposed to bring me joy. In my eyeballs. In my teeth.
One of those irrational fears is that I’m not really mentally ill, and I’ve just found something that a skill-less, goal-free, vulgar and incompetent hack can hang his hat on, dine out on, make a business card out of. Where the fuck are my business cards? I haven’t been able to find that box since we moved. Now, every time I meet someone who I should be giving a business card to, I quip, “Sorry, I don’t have any business cards on me because I’m not actually an adult.” And they always smile and say, “Oh, that’s okay! I’m totally not either.” And I hate that.
Recently, the irrational fear that I am not actually mentally ill is waning in my mind as I have been feeling my depression, which usually hangs out, lapping gently at my ankles or my knees like lake water, creeping up toward my neck. Lori McKenna sings
I’ll be just fine, out of my mind,
I like it this way, I know when to pray,
I’m in control; till it swallows me whole.
Somebody asked me a couple days ago what it’s like to parent while crazy. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I said something stupid and cliche that made me want to pull out my own eyes and cook them in a frying pan. But I suppose, upon a little more reflection and another couple days of Viibryd in my system, that parenting while crazy is like parenting while not being crazy, except that, in our house, and maybe in your house, too, mental illness always has a seat at the table. A spot for its tush on the bed during story-time at night. Maybe it chills on the ceiling fan, tsk-tsking about the layer of dust on each blade as you wander around aimlessly looking for that tie. Or those business cards.
The people who owned our last house before us had a sign that hung above the doorway to the dining room that said, “Jesus is the silent listener at every conversation.” Fucking weird, right? Well, in our house, Jesus probably doesn’t feel the need to bum around much, but depression and anxiety, the conjoined apparitions that reside with my wife and I, and our real twins, are always around. They compare notes, they exchange glances, they roll their eyes. They’re funny, and sometimes they even let me in on the joke, or let me make my own. “Sorry I don’t have any business cards, but…” They don’t contribute to the mortgage, or to the children’s 529 account. They don’t give a fuck. They don’t bathe. They just watch me shower and try to get it all off me.
My children just started first grade today. “Do I know enough?” my daughter asked me yesterday. I smiled and told her that the job of any teacher is to prepare their students for what’s next, and I asked her if she thought her kindergarten teacher prepared her for what’s next. “Yes,” she said, her eyes gleaming. I’ve been teaching her how to read an analog watch, and she’s getting very good at it. The short hand tells you the hour, if it’s in between a three and a four, then the hour is three. Then we count, 12 is 0 minutes, 1 is 5, 2 is 10, 3 is 15…. There are middle schoolers in 2018 who can’t read a watch.
She knows what depression and anxiety are, too. So does my son. They’re both at risk for both, of course, and that’s part of the reason I didn’t want to have children in the first place. That’s part of it. But they’re here and it’s Party On, Wayne. Party on, Garth. Party on, Anxiety. Party on, Depression. Take a pill, Wayne. See your therapist, Garth. Time for first grade. Off we go.
Last night, my daughter and I were in her room after we picked out her dress for today. I knelt down and I looked at her, and she saw it in my eyes. And she looked at me in a way that said to me, I’m sorry you’re so sad, and she gave me such a strong hug — a different hug from a normal hug. A good hugger hug. An I’m sorry hug. An I know I can’t fix this hug. And it didn’t fix it. And the VW Beetle doesn’t fix it. And the meds don’t fix it. And holding onto my wife for dear life at 4:40am doesn’t fix it. But we party on, Wayne.
And Jesus is the silent recipient of every misplaced business card.