This
blog is a weird thing for me. It seems as though the more I have to say, the
less inclined I am to say it. Say it here, I mean. Instead of writing the full
thought on here when the mood strikes, I will encapsulate the whole thing in
one Facebook status or say it to Comfrey, and leave it there. It's my first
experience with brevity and it is puzzling.
I
hate the word depression because it sounds like a singular condition, like
diabetes, or a broken wrist or stupidity. Depression, or what I would deem that
strange state, is that culmination of a pile of really bad things happening-
perceived or otherwise- that eventually get so heavy you can't easily move out
from under it. At best, you drag it behind, like a chicken pulling a hay bale
up a hill. Imagine the incentive that chicken would have to have at the top to
even fucking bother trying. What was my incentive? I don’t know. I have (touch wood) all the big 4 in spades.
It's not love; I am loved in a way I have never dared imagine. It's not money;
and if you don't know first hand, I'll tell you now the more you have, the more
you spend, the more empty it is. It's not health, nor lack of friendship and
support; I've got a dozen or so people who I feel honored to have in my life,
in my corner. And yet, I almost couldn't leave the house once we moved back to
Grande Prairie and it was starting to scare me.
I
still don't know exactly what it was, but I was missing something. I had
been so removed in Dawson, reclusive out of necessity, and hermit-like out of
self-preservation. Moving back to GP should have been a breath of fresh air,
but it hit me quite strangely. For almost two months, through a record
beautiful summer and the endless chances to reconnect with people, I was almost
only in my pajamas. Tuesdays and Sundays were interchangeable. I was on the
same schedule as Ben, our three year old neighbour; glued to the TV,
occasionally running around in the backyard screaming, and refusing to eat what
we’d just asked to have. Days went by where I didn’t do more than twenty
minutes worth of anything remotely productive; and that could include brushing
my teeth or loading the dishwasher. On the same day! Not impressed? Well I was.
Now I’m mortified. It was dark and pathetic and weird, and some days I thought
I might turn into a fourth house cat. We'd all wander around the house whining,
wondering when Jen would come home and feed us.
Now
I like to make things relative, so I surely don't claim to have had that much
more piling up than anyone else has had; if we all compared bad news checklists
we'd have the best pity party going, if anyone could get their shit together
enough to plan the thing. I just know that I hit my wall. I was 33 years old all of a sudden, time was flying, and
the Nobel people weren't going to knock on my door just because I finally had
a shower. The three years in Dawson were a complete and total waste of time. My personal standards flew right off the map. If that was all I could see around me, why worry? Why try?
Only
some of that can be attributed to geography. It's no secret that three years
spent living in Dawson, and the social conditions or lack thereof that came
with it, was brutal for me. I won't speak for Jen, but you would see that she
agrees if you could see her right now, cuddled up on the sidewalk, licking the
curb, saying "never leaving again, never leaving again" like Rain
Man.
Technically,
the town was a town, nothing more, nothing less. It was the fact that it was "us", and on top of it, in a town that resented the project we were building with their tax dollars. I'm sure people move there
every day and find redeeming qualities. A disproportionate lot of ex-pat
Americans seem to love living there- and that says far more about them than it
does the town. And possibly the mysterious "it" that's in the water
there.
You might think I'm prone to hyperbole, but there truly is some X-Files stuff going on there- and the first proof of that
is that you can't rent or buy a copy of a single episode of the X-Files in any
of the stores. It's a lot like the Truman Show- they're not allowed to know
about it. Maybe Jen and I survived, stayed outside of it, because we weren't on
city water supply. Good thing. For example, had we became indoctrinated, I
wouldn't have a blog. I would be far happier expressing my creativity by
carving gems like "I saw you take that shit put it back" on the
inside door of every toilet stall in town. I'd have Yosemite Sam mud flaps to
hang on my truck. I'd put wieners in my Thai stir fry and splash puddles on
pedestrians, circle the block and do it all again.
So,
here we are, with November approaching. I’m awake now, unencumbered and
grateful. I’ve started showing up. I see what I have, and I know what I want. I
know I can have it, too. That’s what’s been missing, I guess, a reason. I
understand that now. Like every procrastinator, I put it off until now, but I
can catch up fast. And then some; my expectations for myself have always been freakishly high. Good things were waiting for me too- I just had to look up. There's been so much going on. The least
interesting of which has me working real people hours on a job site. Don't make
a big deal about this, but I like it. Turns out I need structure, I need to be accountable.
Before settling into the job, in a field in the middle of nothing, I bought all the
provisions; in this case a spanky new MacBook Air and a dozen good books.
And I almost never touch them. Somehow there aren't even enough hours in the
day, and while I'm sure my job doesn't appear taxing in relation to the dirty work of
the men and boys who park in the same lot as me, I am doing something that
matters. And when I'm not, I'm writing- as much as I can makes it onto a hard drive at the end of
a night- and what doesn't is on my mind at all times. It's coming out easy,
it's coming out right. I am back among the living, and I am no longer ready for a fight. Dawson is over, we won, and I think I have recovered. I have a family to take care of, and a lot of catching up to do.
I'm starting to feel like me again, and I did it by
shooting my high horse.
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