The foundation of me is an earthquake, shaking and undulating. I scramble and react, unsure of what footing to trust - not sure if trust is even a thing anymore. School is fractured fault lines, he is a landslide to dodge, sister and family never really understood and therefore never really loved me. All is seismic waves and blurry images. In snippets between the tremors, I remember that there is a self. I search for her.
I'm so lonesome I could cry. Close every door to me. All is sad music and scrambling.
The feeling is powerful. It is all of me. I used to tell a depressed friend; you have a choice. Identify it and fight it.
I still believe that. Except. At times. When it hits and you're in its grip. When it is you. It was me yesterday.
Today I grasp to remember because I'm coming out. I fear that someday(s) I won't come out. The quake won't cease. The tremors will just keep rocking me. I need to hear that voice that says...
- Go for a walk
- Do something that you're not currently doing
- Play the keyboard (my *brilliant* escape last night)
That's my Red Cross. It's idiosyncratic what will work. Sometimes I can play the keyboard. But I haven't played in five years. So I have to be as flexible as my undulating quake. I have to roll with its punches. I am enabled to do this when I...
- Eat right
- Sleep right
- Exercise
Those precede any heroic piano playing. They are my first line of defense. When I hear those and obey, I have a patch of solid earth. I have defended my brain chemistry.
Today I'm exhausted from fighting it. I want the other me back. The one that was sooooooo solid at the beginning of the week. Shoot, I was solid ground for others around me! And then I quaked.
I write because it happened. I write because I know it will happen again. I write because I want my house to sit on bedrock. I want to strap some shred of me together so it's there for me to cling to when the tectonics come again.
