Not Today

“There is only one god and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: “Not today.” 
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

I love this quote. I think it is my favorite line from this whole series and, if you're watching it, you know there are some really, really excellent lines. Like anything that comes out of Tyrion's mouth.

So this may be disjointed because there are things I feel and there are things I want so say and there are things I can't say and they're all competing in my head. The main thought and concern is how desperately, painfully unhappy my Bugabooga has been. Depression is a motherfucker and it has a tight grip on her at this point in time and I hate it more than anything else. More than snow and the inventor of Crocs, more than people who hurt animals and even more than 50 Shades of Grey. But you know what? Depression doesn't give a shit. It's nastier than Honey Badger, who at least offers some entertainment and inspiration to be a Bad Ass. Depression just takes over and ignores all attempts to thwart it.

What depression is really good at is creating barriers between the depressed person and anyone who cares about her. This is what it has done with D. No matter what I say, or how hard I try, or how much I will her to be better, none of that gets through. She's under the invisible shield of depression. Except it doesn't work the way that a shield should, it doesn't protect her. It hurts her. It lies to her. It tells her she's worthless and useless and dumb and a waste. None of which is even remotely true. She's beautiful and talented and wonderful. She's loving and sensitive and this is how it takes advantage of her. Damn it.

And then there is my own depression, which acts more like a door. It shuts me in, and turns down the blinds and makes it darker for a while. Only doors can be opened, even if I have to pick at the lock for a while to get out. I think, however, that it relishes in the fact that it takes me away from her for a little bit, that it uses up the energy I need to help her. I hate it for that.

If the universe worked in the way that it should, D would feel better because of the simple fact that I love her enough to make it so. I'm the mommy, I'm supposed to make the boo-boos go away. I lost that power a long time ago and I desperately want it back. It's my right and privilege as a mother to make my child's life better.

But here is the thing I have learned, which was reinforced yesterday. We are not alone. If you are reading this, and can relate to what I am saying at all, and if you take nothing else away from my rambling, know that you are not alone. You are not alone in how you feel and you are not alone in that you have to go through this on your own. The thing is, that when you ask for help, you get it. I can ask for a million dollars or a pony until I'm blue in the face and it isn't going to happen but if I ask for help, it's there. It just is. In the form of friends, family, discovering that other people feel this way or have felt this way, or those who can't even comprehend what you're trying to say but still care and want to help and offer to help and do help.

I think D feels like she is the only one affected by her depression. She's not. It breaks me into a thousand pieces on a nearly daily basis knowing that she is so miserable and I can't change it. And then I feel like since I'm her mom, that it's up to me and me alone to Fix It and help her but that gets overwhelming and I get tired and I want to stop even though I know I can't. So I ask for help. She asks for help. And what an hour ago seemed insurmountable suddenly feels a little more manageable. Even if it's just for a little while. An hour, a day. It's enough to keep me going. It helps her stop crying for a little while.

It helps us say, in the loudest voice we can manage in that moment, Not today.

My Favorite

So I've been complaining a lot lately about Nutcracker weekend and how much it sucks. And it does. I'm tired. D is tired. I have to have extra energy to get her through the times that she's tired and grumpy and sore and hungry. Which isn't fair, because she's younger than me and is supposed to have more energy. I spend more money than I want to on last-minute supplies and spend my time catering to her needs. Or wants. Or whines.

I'm dead tired right now and I think pajamas are the best thing ever invented and I'm about to sleep like the dead (with Nutcracker music stuck in my head), but I have to say one thing. I love my bugabooga more than anything in the world. I'm a mom so I know I'm supposed to say stuff like that, only I'm not that kind of mom. I don't like most kids. Some days I can hardly stand the one I have. But I love her to pieces anyway and tonight she outdid herself.

She had her first solo tonight and there really aren't words for how I felt. My heart nearly burst when she came out on stage. Doll has always been one of my favorite parts and she made the Best Doll Ever. She was beautiful and radiant and she floated across the stage and she looked so grown up and the only reason I didn't pass out from holding my breath the whole time was because I was concentrating on trying not to cry so that I could see her without my eyes getting all blurry.

Am I proud of her? Yeah, sure. But that's just too generic a term. She astonishes me. She surprises me in the best possible ways. I don't know how she got to be the person that she is. But I'm glad she is. And I'm glad she's mine.