I was raised Jewish, so Jesus is not my “thing.”
I mean – I get how he can be someone else’s thing if they were raised believing in him. And there are times I wish I could have been raised learning about him. I mean… without all the fire and brimstone and guilt and sinning that goes along with learning about him.
I envy how, in the sea of despair and confusion that life can be at times, there is this kind bearded hippy who would totally be down with chilling with you and laying his loving hands on you no matter what you have done or where you have been. Plus… He had an awesome mom who loved him and she was down with hanging as well. They are like that family you always envied who lived down the street from you who never had loud screaming arguments about whose turn it was to go buy cigarettes. They just were full of light and love and joy but not in a completely creepy way.
I would much rather have Jesus’ kind face guiding me through my misery than some faceless angry being who smites and plagues and tests your faith like the God that I was raised with. I am not putting down Judaism. I am a proud Jew. I use my Jewishness as an excuse for all of my angst. My son loves getting 8 days of presents during Hannukah. AND Christmas gifts.
But when it comes down to helping me through this tangled thicket of depression, it would be nice to have some nonjudgmental hippy emerge from the darkness and help me out than a quiet, faceless God who is somewhere out there silently judging me..
Also… Jesus was productive. For me, he falls into that category of famous people who died young. The 27 club (Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix, Cobain, Winehouse) wows me – every time I listen to their music I am floored by the fact that they were able to break ground and become immortal before dying in some tragically needless way at SUCH a young age. Their pain all led to something earth changing and important, and they all were sacrificed in one way or another. I am not trying to be sacrilegious here by comparing the 27s with Jesus. Also, I know he was in his early 30s, but still… What did YOU accomplish by your early 30s? By my early 30s I kind of learned how to pluck my eyebrows and squeezed out a kid. That pretty much sums up my legacy.
I am fascinated with the ways some people can sculpt their own shitty circumstances into light and love (and music) and affect other people profoundly, even when they cannot reach themselves. Or save themselves.
Jesus had an accomplished life by the time he was 33 AND he rose from the dead.
And here I am. I can’t even raise myself from the bed or couch.
I can’t bring myself to even change my clothes.
I mean… I still do. But it is getting harder and harder.
I still trudge through my runs. My showers.
I still roll out of bed and slog over to my yoga room and attempt to flop around on my mat. I still pull clothes on and smear makeup across my face.
But… Inside I feel the battery percentage going down. And I am in the red zone now. I am continuously feeling sick. Nauseous. Runny nose. Cough. It won’t go away.
On days when I don’t have to go anywhere, I don’t. But neither does my son. The house is filling up with clutter. The kitchen sink is perpetually full of dishes. The laundry baskets (yes – I just keep buying baskets to keep up. I should start a domestic blog) are either overflowing with dirty laundry from weeks gone by or are full of clean folded clothes that I haven’t put away. My son and husband and I are just taking what we need out of there now and it’s working just fine.
Yesterday I turned on my favorite yoga instructor on my app and attempted to do just one of her half hour classes because I didn’t have the strength to do a full hour.
And I still had to stop half way through.
Last night, I attempted to watch “Get Shorty” with my husband for the second night in a row without falling asleep on the couch. Hubby kept saying “watch this part – it’s so funny!” I just fought my eyelids and hardly processed the movie like some junkie nodding out on a street corner. All of my favorite actors in a movie that I never got around to seeing and it was just a blur of noise and images that I was forcing myself to stay awake for.
Kind of like my daily life lately.
This morning (Easter Sunday) I woke up at 4:00AM for no reason, pondering what I was going to do that day. Hubby goes to the Buddhist Center on Sundays. I usually go to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship but haven’t been there in weeks and weeks (after never missing a Sunday – you’d think one person would reach out and see what’s going on, right? Check where I am and find out if everything is ok? I don’t know if that bothers me because I’m already in an enormous sinkhole of suck, but it does make me wonder.)
Suddenly… I sat up in a panic and flew down the stairs. “What’s wrong??” Hubby called after me.
“I forgot to put together C.’s Easter basket!!!”
Hubby came down with me and together we threw together the sorriest looking basket ever. I forgot to buy plastic eggs (I threw out about 7 ziploc bags of them when we moved over the summer. I said to myself “I don’t need to pack these! I’ll just buy more!” This was at a time when I had an inflated sense of accomplishment since I was on a superhuman packing phase of my life. I could do just about anything back then, and assumed that momentum would just last and last and last. It didn’t. And I didn’t buy those fucking eggs.)
So we just threw family size packages of candy into the basket along with a few Beanie Boos. Boom. Easter basket done. C. hasn’t mentioned the Easter bunny much (the leprechaun a few weeks ago was a frequent discussion around here – apparently creepy little green creatures trump cute balls of fluff for an 8 year old.) I still did not want him to be disappointed when he heard about his friends getting Easter baskets and the only baskets he saw had underwear and socks that he wore before Valentine’s Day crumpled inside of them.
We finished our task. We went back to bed.
The undeniable, glaring, hideous fucking truth stared me in the face.
I am not the kind of depressed that is cute and loveable in movies where my hair is still perfect and I lounge around the house in cute sweaters and teeny little short shorts.
I am the kind of depressed that you see in the commercials and thank God you don’t have to deal with the side effects from whatever meds it is trying to sell you with its cute, sad little storm clouds .
I am “never want to get out of my sweats or brush my hair” depressed.
I am “too tired to take a shower” depressed.
I am “words blend together as I try to read so I am not just laying on the couch scaring my family” depressed.
I am “not enough coffee to wake me up because this isn’t being tired this is being dysfunctional” depressed.
I am “no one asks me how I am feeling because they are afraid I may actually tell them” depressed.
I am so many kinds of depression and none of them are good. I am the kind of depressed where I keep telling myself that I have to pull it together for my job, my son, my husband, my stepdaughters, my cats, my dog, my neighbors, my friends, the garbage man, the barista at Starbucks… And I continuously leave myself off that list.
I thought I could just avoid going back to therapy mostly because it would be a scheduling nightmare. I’m exhausted. And sad. But I don’t want to get up from the couch and have to go to one more place in a day. I guess that’s kind of like saying you’re too fat to go to the gym. It’s a useless and stupid excuse to stay where you are. I know that I am not useless and stupid. But that knowledge is starting to weaken. And the voice I use to argue back at the internal voice telling me I am useless and stupid is turning into a whisper.
I want my voice back.
I am powering down and I don’t have a charger to get back myself back up.
But Easter is about rising above the hopeless.
Easter is about rising.
But in order to rise, I need to take the first step.