The Sense in Being Senseless: My Weapon for Depression

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I am in control of the life I lead, the body I reside in, the mind I put to sleep when the day has burned away its use.  “When the moon wakes up, the sun will go to bed.” I tell my son all-knowing, “and then the opposite is just as true. So life should make sense to you at 2.” 

If only life were so simple. If only I carried control like a remote of direction – I’d click through my guide of televised episodes concluding day’s ends – moral lessons by the channel.

But life is not so simple like the moon and sun appear to tell.  My dear children, I  won’t be able to explain it all and that’s the honesty I promise to always give you.  I promise to break your hearts when necessary, because it is my motherly and decent duty to never bend lies beautifully, so that you will grow up well. 

Life will sometimes hurt and control will slip your grip and mudslides of mistakes can ensue if you allow them to when the rain does not stop pouring.   You are not the makers of weather. Do not fight the storms as if you will turn them dry. Enjoy the sights of light striking fear into your hearts because, while such bolts of flash deem terrifying,  they’re real and will remind you of the many different ways possible to feel.  Be thankful you’re alive and please, do not dwell.  The storm will pass.

I am just having  one of those weeks and the rain is paying some visitation .  I watch the clouds roll in and listen for the growls of angry sky to arrive all while sitting on a swing beneath the blender.  Sunshine dimmed by white skies and in the distance,  black.  I sit beneath it all so that I can see, today I am outside myself.  Today, I am out of my control.  There is no sense today.  And that’s okay.

Queen City Kait

A Train of Mindful Feedings in February

On a slow gliding torpedo toward the Hudson, big city rumble – traveling alone.  Riding a bit shaky, bumping off steel frames, strangers wear their grins.

Snow blanketing fields outside my window – lay peacefully untouched in the rarely seen plains of New York’s rural mass – impoverished back allies of forgotten sheds.  A town’s mutated gene with a broken window, three rundown cars, some cluttered lawn mowers all meant for fixing – covered in angelic, glittering white.

The sun, a blazing ball of gold on Friday morning –bounces through skinny, sleeping trees and if I close my eyes, creates anxiety -A flashing red and white dance party –eyes widen relief – the tracks kicking up white dust below.

Friday morning.  Our lucky American’s last laboring frenzy.  Counting down the hours before the happiest 5-9 – “another night running late” – slamming cinnamon poison under mint rubber – you feel no shame – you feel your feet swell – feel your legs warm – carrying up into your face flushing hot with reward.

On a train, with myself – some funky beats to block out talk – how nice not to talk – and  watch – watch the sun rave with birch and pine until a massive willow who stands like wisdom – turns our fire briefly to night in a glimpse – and is gone.

The coldest month our north has seen in quite some time – not made for people’s hands to peddle or ponder – a femme fatal murderous winter –choking lungs into frozen ice boxes that hold no breath – she’s tallied tall numbers – our taker – and yet this train is full of souls in route to another frostbitten building holding heat – proving yet again, life demands no stopping.

But how the trees dance – how the snow swings in bouts of wind that blow like cotton softly – how the sun creates hope brighter than the white that blinds me – how the untouched plains remind me – beyond my stinging phalanges and nose – what our world is without my being.