Even (really popular) Cowgirls get the Blues
Just West of Crunchy is a blog I follow. Grounded, insightful, human, and loved by 6563 (that’s only Facebook & Twitter). A husband and wife team with what seems to be a tight knit community of mamas, papas, and inbetweeners. They talk about breastfeeding, attachment parenting, good eats, the occasional glass of wine (or three), gentle discipline, bed-sharing, cussing…all stuff I love (much to the chagrin of my well-intentioned but more conservative grandmother).
The female half of the operation, Amy, also knows about The Dark. She’s written about her struggle when she was temple deep in the muck and recently written again about her slow climb out of it. She linked to some pretty spot-on posts over at Hyperbole and a Half that made me smile/weep. Mostly, Amy spoke to me and for me. Her eloquence and honesty left me breathless and shaking. She said the things I wish I could say. I’m not there yet, partly because I’m new at blogging and am still finding my voice, but also because talking about The Dark is still not easy for me.
I occasionally fall apart
Blogging about depression (or any given mental health issue) is not new. What struck me is that the blog, this writer, loved by thousands, very much in the public eye ~ by all standards, popular, talked about it. It made me feel more normal. More a part of the “real” world. More like I too, deserve a place among “ordinary” people.
So, many thanks to Amy, Just West of Crunchy, and her supportive following.
Today, right now, I feel like I can do this.
Get me out of here.
Reblogged this on A Clown On Fire and commented:
Touching. As always.
It’s weird to think of myself as popular. That is something I haven’t ever really been, but maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I have a decent following, which has really come through as the safety net as I crack open and talk about all the dark and twisty shit that’s going on with me.
I hate that you know, but I love that you know. Hope that makes sense, I suspect it will. Your drawing here is perfect. With the little “fuck” ….it’s perfect. And you just stand there, arm-less, wondering how in the hell you’re supposed to pick up your arms and reattach them when you don’t have any frigging arms! But also not really caring….it’s strange.
By now, you probably know that the light kills the dark. The dark will do whatever it can to stay in the dark, but when you let it out…it has no choice but to be absorbed into the light. Talking about this is the light. You are normal (every bit as I am, anyway – that might not be saying much! LOL).
We belong among the normal and the ordinary because *everyone* has their own shit. We’re just talking about ours. I think that makes us awesome.
I feel like I can do it today, too. Mostly because you posted this. The next time I feel like leaving my arms on the floor and letting myself fall apart, I’m going to remember this.
Know that when you’re falling apart, I will be here to tell you to figure out how to reassemble yourself. And so will the others that have shouted (or whispered) a resounding “me, too!” in the wake of these posts.
Thanks for posting. Means the world to me.
Amy, I love to read that my wife made a difference in your day as you did in her daily life. You’re courageous and beautiful women.
You are awesome. Sounds like we have the good husband thing in common.
PS – you guys need Facebook pages for your blogs! ;)
Colour me gobsmacked. You’re incredibly kind. I’m happy you liked the post (and feeling a little awesome now).
You’re right. Talking/writing/whatevering is the dark’s nemesis. Opening the curtains clears out the cobwebs and banishes the shadows. I have tonnes of other metaphors, but I’ll stop there….
Here’s to punching the myth of “normal” right in the neck (with or without arms)!
Aw! I hope you feel awesome. I have a friend that I can call in the middle of the night and she will be here to listen (she happens to live down the street) if I really need her. Sometimes it helps to get out of my usual circles (no offense to the husbands/family/friends) and just talk to someone who isn’t so in the middle of it all.
It helps so much to document this crap. Going back to my posts from 2009 made me realize that this is something I’m dealing with long-term, it’s not a short-term funk. Just recognizing that is a big deal. I hope you continue to write!
This post made me cry, it is beautiful and touching and you hit the nail on the head perfectly. It takes so much courage to write like this about something so difficult. My mum has had depression for a very long time now, I wrote about it in my own blog, and finding gems like this blog mean so much to me because it makes me feel like I can break through the darkness surrounding her and try and help. Thank you.
xox
Damn. Having someone close to you suffering from depression is probably as hard as being the one with depression. I’ve seen what my husband and family have gone through, in the role of caretaker or punching bag…
I’m sorry you and your mum are going through a difficult time. She can use all the love she can get, and so can you. Take care of both of you, and thank you.
Caretaker & punching bag, indeed.
Up in La La Land, thanks for keeping at it, even though I know it seems like a lost cause sometimes. Having people like you in our lives makes a difference.
Today you can do this. Best wishes as you continue to find your voice.
I like the reference in your post title. Tom Robbins is one of my very favorite writers.
That book permanently altered me. Might be about time to revisit…
I won’t tell you why I haven’t gotten around to reading that particular one because I don’t want to spoil it for you too.
I’ve read Still Life With Woodpecker more times than any other book and I’m always making references to things in Jitterbug Perfume and Skinny Legs and All , but . . .well, it’s a dangerous thing to quote Robbins to anyone who’s not familiar with his particular brand of language genius. :-)
Oh YEAH! Skinny Legs and All!
My first intro to Tom Robbins and I was devoted after that. He really is a master at creative prose. When I grow up, I’d like to be like him.
I found my way to your blog via your husband’s. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to deal with all of this and a family. I am so very lucky that I have been in treatment for 14 years; although trust me, it never truly goes away, it just gets more manageable and stable. I am not sure I would want it to go away at this point. I know that might sound odd, but it is a part of me. I believe it has made me more aware and insightful in so many ways. Although living with the darkness is hard and, at times, terrifying, without it, I might not appreciate the light the way I do. And I might not respect the difficulties that others have to live with, no matter the name.
I too, have mixed feelings about my mixed feelings. The darkness can serve me as well as the light, but in a family situation (with young kids, anyway) I don’t have the luxury to sit with The Dark and sort through the muck to find the root, seed, lesson, or whatever. I like feeling more stable, because it makes me a more functional parent and spouse.
I get why you would miss it if it went away. I’m happy you found me, and I’m grateful you shared your experience.
I completely agree that being more stable is by far the best place to be. As I said, I cannot even come close to imagining how you cope as a spouse and parent.
I think I meant that I would be sad if my previous experiences went away as they have helped make me into this person. And the person I am is loved and treasured in the here and now, not just the more stable future. Did that make more sense. I should have warned you that I had a pinched nerve and was medicated when I replied. :)
Yay pain meds! Hope you’re having a decent party. Sorry about the slipped disk. I know what you’re getting at about the whole “our past makes us who we are and that rocks even if it hurt like hell”. Speedy recovery…
New to blogging, or no… Your voice is a voice. And yours is good.
(Why did that sound like that came from the Bible?)- “Psalm 3,456″
I think I saw that excerpt in The Prince Jimmy version of the bible. The middle-age testament. Thanks for your high praise. You’re real nice.
Thanks, Sara. I could be wrong, but I think it’s “Prince Jimmie” with an “ie” instead of a “y.” I have a copy somewhere up here…
You be nice too. I look forward to reading!
Uncle
Damn! You can write. And you write from the heart, and the head, and the hip, and it’s beautiful to read.
It’s not just light, but it’s also warmth. I see you shining and radiant and all second-law-of-thermodynamics in every word, and I cannot help but wonder “Wow. How did that happen? Where did it come from?”. I suppose, though, if I stop and think, that the light and warmth that come through so brightly in your words also came from the same place as the dark mud that envelops you from time to time, as it does me.
I wonder about the role I probably played in the blessing/curse dumped on you. You know all too well the struggles that I’ve had – and I wish I could say something trite and lame like “it gets better…” or, “time will tell…”, and have it mean something. The problem with the trite and lame lies in their nature. Would they be lame if they weren’t?
So I sit here tonight, on the water, many miles away, and I feel the distance wiped off the map by your words. I hear you. I wish we weren’t so much alike.
Dad, it took me a few minutes t realize this was you. Now that I know you’re not some freaky stranger…
Thank you. You, too write beautifully, powerfully. Here’s mud in your eye/heart/head. xo
Daughter o’mine… you blew my carefully constructed cover! And who says I ain’t some freaky stranger?
Granted, you are a bit freaky and strange…but in a totally good way.
Pingback: Brain Rot | Laments and Lullabies
Pingback: Radio Silence Until Further Notice… | Laments and Lullabies
Pingback: Hire me, I’m crazy! | Laments and Lullabies
Pingback: Courage, My Love… | Laments and Lullabies
Pingback: I’m Going to Attempt Something No One has Done Before | Laments and Lullabies
Pingback: Getting through: What’s Working