Depression for me is a cumulative thing. I don’t wake up one morning feeling more worthless, confused and lost than the day before. It’s a gradual tightening around my heart. A stuck door; constant noise from nearby water main project and tasks which must be attended to: Taxes, expired licenses, home maintenance issues … all those things postponed during the pandemic. Worst of all for me, a vaccine shot. I hate getting shots. No one can tell me they are just pinpricks. I can feel that old needle pierce my skin and drill into soft flesh. And then afterwards, the redness, the bruising … Yes I am that patient all doctors love: The whiney cry baby.
But it doesn’t sound like they’re going to produce a vaccine in pill form anytime soon and so I will have to man up as they say. Put on my big girl pants and go get the shot.
And to make matters worse, my cat has decided I am the worst human being on the planet. He’s never been the friendliest of pusses but now he’s a complete pain in the patootie, especially as we must keep him inside the house at all times. The Serial Biter, an apparently psychotic coyote, has been on the prowl in our neighborhood since last July. Already two children, a jogger, a skateboarder and convenience store clerk have been attacked. Who knows how many kitties and small dogs have completely vanished. I say “a coyote” instead of a “couple of coyotes” because through DNA analysis they know it’s the work of one bad hombre. (Well, bad to us but probably a legend in the coyote world)
So far Serial Biter has outsmarted the animal control folks, who I’m sure, are fed up with the Wile e Coyote jokes at their expense. No word on what they plan to do: round up all the coyotes, take their DNA and release the innocents? And what about Serial Biter once they’ve identified him (or her)? No doubt some soft hearted animal lover will set up a GoFund Me to provide the poor critter with psychological help. They certainly cannot – shudder – euthanize him. Can you imagine the uproar?
Generally depression is not a problem for me, however, I just finished the edits on a third book and, after reviewing the sales of my last two, the gales of November have come early. Is writing really worth it? Low sales, too few reviews, a body none the better from lack of exercise. Last night I announced to my hubby, I was over. Done. I’d written my last word, blogged my last blog, tweeted my last tweet. Then, to ramp up said depression to a fever pitch, I picked up Moby Dick:
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” -Herman Melville
While listening to The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald:
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early – Gordon Lightfoot
One of my hungry hypos!
It’s not exactly what a shrink would prescribe. I should be taking a walk on this fine crisp day, making myself a pan of brownies or volunteering to help people who are truly misfortunate instead of selfishly indulging my “hypos.” (love that word, don’t you? Can’t have sex right now love, my hypos are acting up.)
Hubby just stopped by on his way to the market with this bit of snideness: “I see you’ve really given up writing this time.” The cad. Just because I’m on the computer doesn’t mean I’m ever going to write again. I’m not, truly, no way!
When the gales of November come early, what do you feed your hypos?