Mary + Her Mental Health

I’ve been doing this little thing lately. Every morning, I come to work with a can of Diet Coke in my bag. When I get to my office, I take the can and place it in the office fridge, right after I log on to my computer and check my messages. There the can chills until 3:00 p.m., the hour when lunch is gone, but at least two more hours of work remain.

3:00 p.m. is the hour when I need something to look forward to, something to kick my booty into gear and keep my nose to the grind, when I'd rather stare blankly, check my email, or take online quizzes that tell me what kind of household cleanser I am. In other words, it's a perfect time for Diet Coke. This is also an addiction management method. I do not drink Diet Coke for breakfast or lunch anymore like I used to. Rather, I save myself for 3:00 p.m. At an hour of the day when I need it most, that’s when I get it. Mommy gets her candy. At 3:00 p.m., I let the tiger loose. Every moment of the experience is like a tickle: opening the door, pulling her from her chilling place, the crack-pop sound when I open her, and Good Heavens and all that is Righteous and Good, THAT FIRST SIP…oh gravy.

Up here on the President’s floor, we have a lot of board meetings, which means we often get free food and sodas. And sodas. After these meetings, the extra sodas get thrown in our fridge, free for the taking. This afternoon, the President exercised her powers of Imminent Domain, or in this case Egregious Obtuseness, with a manner so grotesque I hardly know how to say it without swearing through my teeth.

The woman stole my Diet Coke. She thought it was a leftover. My Diet Coke! A leftover!

An honest mistake, you think, one that’s easy to do. I might agree with the first part of that… and I do emphasize the might. But the second part of this thought is immediately dismissed as false because of one important fact: all leftover sodas are Pepsi products. Unmistakable blue packaging with the Pepsi products. And women are not color-blind. And no, smarty-pants, our President is not a man dressed as a woman.

3:00 p.m. today comes. I go to the fridge. No can. I’m slightly disappointed, because I think this means that somehow I forgot to take the can from my bag this morning, which means I’ll have to track down some ice and a cup in order to enjoy my Diet Coke. And I typically don’t like ice in my Diet Coke, because it waters it down too much. Spoken like a true addict. I go back to look in my bag. No can. It must be in the back of the fridge, or maybe in the door, I don’t remember where I put it. I go back to the fridge to look again, and standing at the photocopier is the President’s assistant. I open the fridge, and look more carefully. No can.

“Huh,” I utter casually, as if this isn’t the true moment of panic that it obviously is, “I could have sworn I brought a Diet Coke with me today.” President’s assistant stops what she’s doing, turns to me sharply with her hand over her mouth and a look of regret. “Oh, Mary. Did you say Diet Coke?” I nod. “I’m sorry, Mary…the President drank your Diet Coke.” I smile. “That’s okay,” I say, “I really shouldn’t drink the stuff anyway.” President’s assistant offers to run out and get me a replacement. Why should she do that, did she drink it? Defeatedly, I decline her sweet offer, and thank her just the same.

My very next thought: Get to your computer and blog this. Hey, it’s 3:00 p.m., and since you didn’t get your Diet Coke, it’s not your fault you’re not going to do any work for the rest of the day. Blame the President.

Labels: sad

“Some people wear their smile like a disguise. Those people
who smile a lot, watch the eyes. I know it ‘cause I’m like that a
lot. You think everything’s okay, and it is, till it’s
not.”

-Ani DiFranco “Outta Me, Onto You”, Dilate

Do you know this song? This song is angry. Understatement. I’ve been rediscovering it this week after a six year absence from it. Six years ago, I could have been singing lead vocal instead of Ms. Ani here. Listening to it again, years later, I’m amazed at how much in me has changed. Even more startling, though, is how some things have not. Yet.

142 days and counting. My wilderness: Anxiety, insomnia, sobbing inexplicably, forgetting important stuff at work, psycho mood swings, trials, flashbacks, nightmares, stress, and hard, hard, hard. It started small and has grown big. Till now I have chosen, and will continue, to emphasize all the positives which have also been experienced simultaneously. Because there are many, many good things at work here.

At the end of spring 2006 I made a decision to change some things up in my life. In some of my prayers I began to sense that there were things going unnoticed and unattended to in my private realm. It was time to deal with that. I knew I needed to shake things up, establish some distance with my comfort people, get out of old routines and roles, to make room for whatever it was that needed my undistracted attention. The Lord didn’t waste any time. Almost from the moment I made the choice to open myself up to whatever was coming, come it did. Now, and as most heavy trials will demand, I am teetering on the very edge of my faith. I have seen where I’ve failed the test on certain days, and I’ve definitely seen where divine powers have lifted me up. Every day feels like a battle. And I am so tired. I’ve tried to keep it private. Mostly because I "wear [my] smile like a disguise". But even still, there are times to talk about it and, to quote Ani again, there are times when "I would rather just shut up and do."

I guess it’s not so private anymore now, is it? Maybe because I know I’ve turned a corner with some of this. Now it’s okay. Now I'm on to a better plan: the living, breathing, in-and-out blend of both happy and sad, both strong and weak, ugly and beautiful, dark and light. All of it. In one woman. For all to see. Indeed, there are many, many good things at work here. But first, I need to go back and walk through a little more hell. So think good thoughts for me. Thanks.

One more thing, just so you know I really am okay…

I saw this guy on the street today, he must have been 93 years old, wearing a full brown wig of the most fake looking hair I’ve ever seen. Reminds me of the time I was walking down Charles Street last summer, and saw a guy very similar, late eighties, polyester jumpsuit, walking a small dog, wearing BLACK hair. Full head of fake black hair. I wanted to follow him into the coffee shop he was entering, sit down in the seat across from him, and with all the gentility and kindness I could muster, say to him:

Sir, about your wig. You’re not fooling anyone. Take the darn thing off.
[For you, Sethie.]

Labels: sad