Baby, You’re the Left Kind of Left

Tonight, after my Creative Writing class:

  1. I almost died in a car accident due to an IDIOT stopping short on a semi-highway because his/her exit was blocked off and he/she wanted to GO THAT WAY (FUCK YOU, MORON!);
  2. I went to my Mom’s to wrangle my sick, eleven year old cat, Peyton, to give him medicine; and,
  3. I sobbed in front of my Mom.

This was a sob of many sobs as of late. I feel like a failure, almost all of my waking time, almost every day. I get glimpses of “you matter in this world” and “thank you for doing that for me,” which sustain me, for now.

But tonight, I sat in front of my Mom, who, although she does everything she can for everyone she can within her capacity to do so, tries SO HARD to say the right thing to me, (which I’m learning might actually be impossible), hurt me. My Mom, does not always say the most sensitive things to those of us in the family with Mental Illness. I KNOW — SHE DOES NOT DO THIS ON PURPOSE — I KNOW — SHE TRIES TO SAY THE THING THAT WON’T OFFEND US. I KNOW this to be true. But sometimes, the wrong words come out of her mouth, (and again, by wrong, I mean, I might be impossible to please in this way), but it hurts.

Tonight, she couldn’t tell me what even one of my diagnoses is. I had no interest in getting into this conversation when I arrived to give Peyton his kitty medicine, and I don’t even know how it came up. But it did, somehow, and here we are. I told her one thing I have been diagnosed with is Major Depressive Disorder. She made the comment that she hoped I would be able to find the Holy Grail — so to speak — which would “motivate [me]” out of what I am going through right now.

In case you don’t know, Depression has NOTHING to do with MOTIVATION. PERIOD. THE — FUCKING — END.

I know my Mom did not mean to offend me with her choice of words, and I told her that, but I also explained that the kind of depression that I suffer from, cannot be “cured.” I cannot be “motivated” out of it — ever. She, of course, apologized if I had felt offended, because that was not her intention. I had already told her, prefacing this part of the conversation, that I knew she didn’t mean to hurt me, but I felt the need to let her know that it was still a hurtful thing to hear.

Because it felt like she was saying things I fear I am. Like I’m just lazy. Like I just can’t get it together. Like I’m not trying hard enough. Like all I need is the “correct stimulation” and I’ll “get over it.”

The end to this story is — I don’t get over it. I don’t EVER get to “get over it.” I cannot both harbor this affliction AND pretend it is curable. It simply isn’t. It is — what I told my Mom it is — MANAGEABLE.

And even though it can manageable, manageability isn’t a given. I’ve had to call my therapist during the week at crazy times because things are going on that I simply cannot deal with in that moment.

Sometimes, people confuse situational depression with forever depression. And if you have both, like I am suffering through right now, I can feel targeted. It’s everything I’m always trying to manage plus everything else on top of that.

My Mom and I talked some more. And through my increasingly wet shirt, neck, and of course, eyes, I sobbed to her, The world broke me, Mom.”

The world, broke me.

But P.S., I have the most amazing, understand, loving, caring, amazing Mom in the world 💞 and I am so grateful for her support.

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