Wallowing

...to the point where I feel small and withered, hating the scorching sun, not being able to smile or hug back when my husband strums John Denver for me on the ukelele or puts his arms around me, hearing my embittered self shooting nasty barbs at the young lady going out on a date. When will you be back? You have a curfew! Why can't he come here instead of you going there? I seem to be turning into my grandmother, my namesake, who could be cruel to my mother and us--though we put up with her eccentricities and mean streak and loved her anyway. [Once a pretty, dark-eyed girl, she spent part of her life in an orphanage. What's my excuse?] And I don't like bearing witness to today's version of dating, at least the one in our house. In fact, I'm sick to death of watching it all and not knowing how the story will end. I want to distance myself but it's hard. Also, our car overheated and is still at the shop, so I couldn't get to my evening meeting. The hot water heater at home stopped working. The pricey coffee I brewed to serve iced at tomorrow's teachers' toast came out weak and halfhearted, like me. I asked Dan to brew another pot. The only thing that brought a grudging smile to my face was the sight of Punchy coming in after an evening of play with the kids on the block. Fresh-faced, mahogany-brown ponytail bouncing, she told me I looked pretty. I saw my child self in her denim shorts and sneakers, her zest for simple play. Yes, I am depressed. Yes, I get help--I talk to a therapist and have my medicines monitored. I walk and do yoga. Yet I move in and out of darkness. Maybe this giving up sweets is a very bad idea. Maybe an ice-cold slice of fudge cake or a giant chocolate chip cookie is the only thing that can keep me moored. Moored or lost at sea--one or the other. And I could list today's TCOYs here, the long walk back from town, the oatmeal with blueberries, but really, what's the point? Signed, Lonely, Lost & Bittersweet