Warning: I'm going to talk about my ongoing battle with what is called Depression. No, I don't take meds for it. No, I don't have a therapist. No, my family isn't concerned. No, I a not a rotten mother, and no, I am not suicidal. If you would like to leave me a comment telling me what an idiot I am, feel free, but you're going to feel rather silly, now that I've already answered the basic questions.
First of all, I hate that I have to be all upfront with my warning and what-not. But I've had enough "counsel" given to me in the past (by those far removed from the situation), that I feel I need to be frank with those who are quick to --dare I say it? --judge. Yep. Judge. I mean, I'm all for good advice and encouraging words, but I don't like being told that I'm being stupid, especially when the one telling me I'm stupid doesn't know me. Harsh stuff, man. And that could be an entirely different post, you know: "Why you shouldn't ever make people feel stupid on their own personal blogs. Save it for the forums! Just kidding. Don't ever make people feel stupid, because it's not nice."
All righty, then. This is what's been going on lately:
I've spent the last few days engrossed in the world of Breaking Dawn (no surprise there!) and here's my short take on it (some Spoiling if you haven't read it!):
1. People love Stephenie Meyer because she has a great imaginary world a lot of people want to believe in. There's just something about fantasy that makes us imagine the possible in the impossible and takes us away --even just for a day --from the daily grind. Sure, her similes get old after a while, sure the relationship between Bella and Edward is a little too passionate/gooey/"I would die for you and oh, your pain is so much my pain!", but I think a lot of women put up with it (as we are reading) because in our deepest inner part, we remember the lust/passion/"die without you" phases in our lives. And hopefully, for some of us, there's a little bit of that still there. Maybe.
2. I was very happy that although there was quite an inordinate amount of sexual reference (not dirty or vulgar, just lots of references!), the recommendation for chastity was obvious. This is good.
3. I would never, ever, ever want my daughters to read these books until they have hit about...age....17 or so. At least until they are at the age when they realize that being a "horndog" (doh! Did I just use that word!?) isn't exactly a good thing, and that Bella's constant physical desire is obnoxious. As a married woman? Didn't really bother me. I got it. As a teen? Awk-Ward! And pretty inappropriate.
4. I thought it was a perfect ending to a good series. This book was just as good (or just as bad, depending on your PoV) as the rest of the books. I was satisfied.
Now that I'm done being immersed in the world of Vampires and Werewolves (and the total desire to become an awesome Vampire myself --what? To macabre?), I have turned my attention to my destroyed household. And I'm tired. Very, very, very tired. It isn't a "oh, I stayed up too late reading Breaking Dawn!" tired --because I was in bed before 11PM last night --it's a "Why do I have to do these stupid chores again!?" tired. It's the "I'm tired of cleaning up dried cereal and cheese; tired of laundry; tired of dirty toilets; tired of whining kids; tired of all the things that are breaking all around our house; tired of financial struggles; tired of dealing with people" kind of tired. The "I'm going to be doing this for 20 years. Every. Day. For 20 years" kind of tired. It's also the "I'll never be a writer" kind of tired and the "did I really gain 6 pounds this month?!" kind of tired and the "blogging just isn't very fun right now" kind of tired.
And it's not so much that I don't want to do things --I know I need to get things done, and I'll get them done. Even now, as I type this, I'm on my second load of laundry, the dishes are finished, and the kids are dressed. The birthday party for #3 is already planned, and Brandon and I are even going out on a date tonight. See? I do things. I get things done. I always get it done. But I'm at a point where I'm wondering if I want to get things done anymore.
Wouldn't it be easier to just be a known deadbeat and watch my Soaps all day? Wouldn't it be easier to allow myself to drift inside and ignore the external? Wouldn't it be easier to just...just...stop caring?
But I doubt I'll find out. I'm too stubborn to quit or give up. I wouldn't be happy with that outcome, anymore than with the outcome I'm living. It's kind of a crappy place to be, you know --stuck inside some sadness, wanting to get out, but liking the familiarity too much to leave.
And then having random strangers to tell you to pop some pills already.
Ah, well. It's how it goes, you know. You do the best you can and you just keep goin'. What else is there to do? Besides trying? And going? Even if I was to take meds and spend years and years trying to find the right dose and type to "fix" me, I'd still have to keep going, you know. Keep trying. Keep fighting. Even if I was to find some superficial type of happiness (which could be better than none, I know, I know!), I'd still have hard times and trials and a never-ending supply of Humble Pie. So, I just gotta keep going. Keep doing. Keep moving. "Enduring to the end," if you will.
You know, someone once told me that "enduring to the end" was awful. What good is enduring if there's no happiness? I wasn't sure how to respond, because I didn't really understand what she was meaning. But now I think I know what she means. And I have to disagree. Because I know that I have happiness. It's out there --on the fringes. Every once in a while, it pops up and into my life (not quite unlike the poem I wrote here), and I try to remember those times. Good memories can last a long time. But I have to endure through the drudgery and down days and tough times to get those shards of happiness. Do I wish I had to find them this way? Tiny pieces of happiness, strewn along the way, only found every once in a while? Do I wish I could have constant happiness? Absolutely.
But some happiness is better than no happiness.
And I'm okay with that.