On the odious state of torpor

I’m thankful to a friend for submitting this artful piece depicting her experience with depression.

Once again, I heard the pitter-patter of little feet running down the hallway. I cringed and shut my eyes tighter. My husband sighed, groaned and got up to help get them get breakfast and help get them dressed while mommy lay in bed. Unmoving. Again. Unable to get up.

Don’t wish it away, Don’t look at it like it’s forever
Between you and me I could honestly say that things can only get better

And while I’m away , dust out the demons inside
And it won’t be long before you and me run to the place in our hearts where we hide

And I guess that’s why they call it the blues… (Elton John)

I lay there thinking myself into a headache. If I were to try to describe my headache, I would say it started at the crown of my head and spread forward making it hurt behind my nose where the postnasal drips and even going so far as to make my back teeth hurt. No amount of caffeine or Tylenol even touches these kinds of headaches. They’re not “real”, they’re imagined so I can mope around feeling sorry for my lot and nurse my fake-ache. Don’t get me wrong, they physically hurt, but there’s no real “reason” for them.

With my eyes still shut, I analyzed my body position. I’ve always slept on my stomach. During pregnancies I switched to sleeping on my left side. Now, I find myself waking up on my back, with my arms wrapped around my mid-section. Hugging myself tight. Just the way they my arms would be if I were wearing a straight jacket tied in the back to keep me from hurting myself. Is there something in my subconscious that is hinting that I am crazy and is trying to send me cruel clues through my own body language?

I determine that despite what I am thinking or feeling, I must get up. So I start to wiggle my toes. Must pump the blood up through my body. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, now rotate my feet from the ankles. Must exercise my body and fight my sedentary brain. Now my calves are flexing up and down, good, get the thighs moving in the mix. Wiggle my hips from side to side–keep working the blood up from my toes to my brain. Belly jiggle and chest inhaling. Now my arms move themselves out from under the covers and stretch above my head. I yawn and rub my eyes, then fold my arms behind my head and lose all momentum. I’m still not ready to be up and want so badly to go back to sleep and wake up with everything right with the world.

I’m slowly losing ground and slipping back under the thick waves of slothfulness when my little one comes into my room, puts her face right into mine and says, “MUH-MEE!” at what feels like a million ear-splitting decibels.

Now I have a living breathing audience awaiting my first step onto the stage. Now I am on. I must say my lines and so that we’re off and running. The show has begun and I must play my part.

I yearn for the day when it isn’t like this. I miss whatever it was I once had that propelled me out of bed even before the alarm went off eager to greet the day. Anticipating the events that would unfold with the rising of the sun. Rather than calculating the hours and minutes I have to drag myself through before I can escape on the fragile wings of slumber once again.