RSS

Monthly Archives: September 2013

Nightshirt

Nightshirt

Originally Published in Elephant Journal.
(For Lee, 9/8/13)

For the first few weeks,
once I would return to the bed,
I’d lie on my side
arm on your pillow
your nightshirt tucked
under my cheek,
One of the few pieces of your clothing
I kept. The body is a just a shell
You said. But your lab coat,
the suit you wore to your graduation,
your nightshirt.

The one you wore to hospice.
The one you were comforted in,
the one, the last one.
Your favorite,
cornflower blue
Bamboo fiber,
soft and light,
unwashed
the scent of you
still smooth upon it,
the smell of your skin-
the gentleness of
the small of your back,
the familiar comfort
between your breasts
where I would rest my cheek,
the collar that still
carried the nape of your neck.
Each breath, a calmative
against the cruelty
Of the sudden solitary sleep,
the life, a brain, that was built around
your existence
suddenly
without.

And, sometimes, I would sleep.
and sometimes not,
but over the days,
the scent diminished,
disappeared,
like your ability to walk,
speak, see, remember,
until little was left and,
fearing it’s loss,
as I still fear yours,
I put it in a plastic bag,
removed the air, closed it tight,
put it away in the dark.

A perfume, almost gone,
of days past,
that brings a flush or joy,
a smile, a sigh,
that, for fear of being used up,
isn’t used at all.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 15, 2013 in Family, Poetry, psychology, Social

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Review – Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin

A review of my latest book from an unexpected source.

Wakela's World

Disclaimer:  I received this book free from Smithcraft Press in exchange for an honest review.  I did not receive any form of compensation.

Growing up in a religiously open home, I learned about the basics of various holidays and religious practices.  I remember having a friend in Elementary school named Michael H.  He would try to explain the various holidays and what they meant.  Yom Kippur was one that was explained, but since we were both children, the explanation was extremely rudimentary.

For some reason, this had been one Jewish holy day that I never really learned too much about, even as an adult.  So when I found this book on NetGalley, I definitely wanted to read it.

Interestingly enough, this author lives in Florida as well.  Not that it really makes much difference, but it was just an interesting fact that I noticed.  Especially when he was talking about the…

View original post 310 more words

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 12, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

High-functioning

Not all people with depression are home lying in a darkened room. Not all depressed people sit with the curtains drawn listening to Morrissey or reading Emily Dickinson. There are people with profound depression who would surprise you, if you knew. But you don’t know they are depressed. They won’t tell you and you won’t notice. They are noncomplaining, high-functioning, dependable individuals who can work next to you each day without giving you so much as a clue to the noise in their heads and the pain in their hearts.

I already regret that last line. I don’t want to be maudlin. I want to present the facts. Let me try this again. There are people we see, know, work next to, who are profoundly, clinically, depressed, who have trouble finding any joy in daily activities, no longer enjoy things they used to, feel little motivation, are noncomplaining, high-functioning, dependable, creative, responsible people. They show up, do their jobs, often volunteer in their communities, and leave those around them with no idea anything is wrong.

You wouldn’t know. Let me tell you.

Nights are sometimes spent curled up in a chair, in a ball, head racing with the most horrible thoughts. There is nothing to do to calm this. Not meditation. Long talks with monks. Rabbis, ministers. Self-help books. Workshops. Guilt doesn’t work. Gratitude for a wonderful life filled with love and laughter and everything one would need doesn’t work.

Psychotherapy. Gestalt. Rational Emotive Therapy. Bioenergetic. Breathwork. Tired of seeking help. Tired of trying. Tired of everything. Tired.

There is nothing to take to calm this. There are no drugs to take because anything that would help could also harm, and so is not kept in the house in any reasonable quantity. Some self-medicate – alcohol, pot – but most do not. At some point, one goes to bed.

The nights are long. Sometimes sleepless, sometimes sleep laced with dreams of failure, or frustration, or remembrance. Sleep is something looked forward to, as, when it does come, the only solace, the only refuge. But prior to sleep, always the thoughts, please, please let this be the last time this bed is laid in. Let tomorrow not come.

But it does, and even with the practice in gratitude, with years of meditation, with knowing the problem is chemical or structural, knowing one has a wonderful life, still, regardless, the first thought upon waking is “Damn. Not again.” Sometimes less polite. And the thoughts start right up again. “This has to stop. This has to. I can’t take this anymore. I just don’t want to do this anymore. I’m done here. I just want to rest.” But there isn’t any.

Morning is a trudge. The daily common activities are chores, but they must be done. And the thoughts, always. Pointless to do anything, but one has a job.

Work. Self-medication begins with music. Maybe coffee – high caffeine. Loud music. Nineties Alt today, Or Tool. Maybe some Sixties’ Psychedelic. One sings. People stop in. There are meetings and conversations. Things get done. Reviews and evaluations are done. All are stellar. Inside, this feels like slogging. Forced. Exhausting. Outside, effortless. Gliding. Flowing. The day ends.

A second job or a volunteer event. Be involved. Or a long walk. Or Gym. One mustn’t seem lazy. One mustn’t seem as though one isn’t taking care of oneself. But going home is the last thing to do. How long can it be put off? Out, at least there is something to occupy the mind. Some days are harder than others. The thoughts are more dense. Some days the thoughts are still there but they don’t come as fast, as thickly. One can distract the mind. One is less prone to cry.

As the evening wears, home cannot be avoided forever. It is quiet. Maybe some TV. Maybe some reading. But there is no escaping what is going on inside. Another mental inventory of the medicine cabinet. No, nothing. Good. Good? People would be upset. People would be hurt.

Calling someone might help. Don’t do it. Don’t complain. Don’t even mention it. People would figure you were too much trouble to deal with. Depressed people are difficult to have around. They bring you down. They won’t love you anymore. You will lose the people you love.

Bed. Bed. Please, please don’t let me wake up again.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 8, 2013 in psychology, Suicide

 

Tags: , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: