One Shade of Grey

Not quite depression. Not quite life.

I’m looking out the window of a coffee shop at a dreary, overcast spring morning.

I’m listening to the playlist that’s been my consistent creative companion.

I’m drinking my lukewarm “writing tea” wondering if company policy demands the scrawling of a happy face on my cup.

And the words won’t come.

There’s nothing I want to write about, other than not wanting to write.

I've been staring at the screen so long, the blinking cursor and I are on a first-name basis.

I’ve decided to name him Richard, or Dick for short.

825 Days

It’s been eight hundred twenty-five days since Chloe died.

I find myself thinking back to the month’s after her death and remembering how I thought about grief.

It was painful beyond my imagination and I was committed to facing it, whenever and however it presented itself.

I thought by this point I’d have the pain confined to a manageable, secure box that I could access at the time and place of my choosing. Believing that gave me something to hang onto in the immediate aftermath of losing my girl.

Of course, that’s not what’s happened. Instead, it’s slowly infiltrated every aspect of my life and my soul. It’s a toxic fog that I can’t escape.

It’s not toxic enough to kill me. Just enough to sap much of my energy, creativity and enthusiasm.

It takes the shine off life’s simple joys, dulls once vibrant colours and makes getting through the days like walking through mud.

I receive good news with the logical understanding that I should probably be happy about it. I’m more prone to catastrophize bad news. And I find myself inventing bad news to catastrophize about.

Each day I’m reminded that healing is learning to live again and building a new relationship with Chloe. And Cindy.

Right now, on most days, that’s the last fucking thing I want to do.

Everything looks and feels grey right now. Maybe this is what depression is.

Or maybe it’s just grief. At the moment, I’m not sure I can tell the difference.

Still, I’ve Been Lucky

I’ve wrestled with addiction over the years and I’m proud of the progress I’ve made. It’s been eleven years since I touched a drop of alcohol. I’ve been (mostly) pot free for the last 3.5 years. I also quit smoking 11 years ago. I find it hard to believe I really smoked.

I’ve been very fortunate that I’ve never experienced depression, or any other persistent mental health issue. It’s something I’ve deeply grateful for.

I’ve seen the inconsolable mental, and physical anguish it inflicted on Cindy. I know it can be a torture chamber from which there seems no escape. I know it tells can tell you vicious lies that are all too easy to believe.

Thank God, what I’m experiencing now is not that. It’s not even close.

I know I will continue to heal. I believe that I was given this cross because I can bear it. I am convinced I will rebuild a different, but meaningful life with my family.

And I know there will be many more hard moments. I might experience them for the rest of my life. As I grow, my relationship with them will change. I will be more able to invite them in when they knock at the door.

And the fog? It might settle in for a time. But it will lift eventually. It always does.