Some people think that my wearing the long and very colourful earrings my daughters made for me is some kind of bravery, some triumph of love over nuisance.
Not a bit of it. My daughters made me those earrings. And I will wear them.
True nuisance factors:
1) Paying the light bill after finishing the shopping for back to school.
2) Sweat. Yes, sweat. Don’t know if it’s the Prozac, the heat, or some past-35 sudden egg expiry I don’t know about, but I break into unaccustomed sweats. A simple walk gets me lathered. Next time I’m at the gym, I might drown.
3) Failure and its phantoms. It’s one of the delusions – perhaps that’s too strong a word – one of the mirages of depair in depression. The thinking goes like this: I haven’t yet mopped the bathroom floor today or vaccummed the stairs. My mother would have had this done by 10 o’clock on a Saturday. The dusting’s not done, either. And I’m still, after nearly four weeks on Prozac, feeling like my blood is lead, struggling not to lie down and turn my face to the wall. Therefore, I’m a failure. Oh, and I’m not getting better fast enough, so I’m letting everyone down – and suddenly even my mental health is part of a to-do list.
Yet I am not a failure. A messy housekeeper, yeah. (Messy, not dirty – big difference.) And I’m depressed, but I’m not hopeless.
Partially because my daughters know the name of my book.
And they made me earrings.
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