Silver Ribbon Stories

Another great, heartfelt and heartbreaking post from The Bloggess…

Blood must be shed, a sacrifice made.

Noah’s people; Goliath; Uzza, for
trying to steady the Ark.
Lot’s wife.
The wicked and the disobedient,
the careless and the unmindful.

And the boy, so intimate with the Law,
degreed in the doctrine of untimely death,
a master of his myriad flaws,
ten small years old,
wrestles with “Why?”
Why She, and not he,
was appointed to die.
She, anointed and sainted by
all who knew Her, the center of his tiny universe,
source of his breath, creator of his body,
giver of life.
Goddess.
Perfect.

Everyone speaks in hushed euphemisms
of God’s reasons for calling
Her home – reasons wise and just
and just as unknowable. But certainly not
as punishment for Her sins. They
all agree on that. Not
as punishment
for HER sins.

No. Clearly, she was offered as
an unblemished sacrifice.   Offered
for the errors of her progeny -
the Goddess Mother
dying
as proxy for her
inconstant little boy.

———

When I was 11 years old, my mother died.   That’s a terrible age to lose a parent, and people’s attempts to comfort me often had the opposite effect.  Specifically, two things people would say always made me feel terrible.  

The first was that God must have needed her in heaven.  How worthless was I, that an omniscient and omnipotent God would decide he needed her more than I.

The second was that people would frequently talk about feeling her presence.  On special occasions, people would say, “I know she’s here, and she’s very proud of you.”  Trouble was, I never felt her presence.  How worthless could I be that my own mother would manifest to cousins, friends, and perfect strangers, but not to her own offspring?   

Only recently have I come to understand that her death wasn’t my fault, and her absence, both physically and spiritually, had nothing to do with my worth as a human being.  Only recently have I come to understand that those fumbling attempts at comfort were well intended, but that they said more about the people telling me those things than they said about me.

I wrote this poem in an attempt to explore and understand those experiences.

depressioncomix:

depression comix #40

I posted this about 2 months ago when I was in a very deep hole of depression. Though it was incredibly difficult to live through, it seems to have been my rock bottom (this time), and I’ve been continually feeling better ever since. I feel more positive and hopeful, and it’s a huge relief! It didn’t just suddenly get perfect and there are still points where I feel the evil fingers of depression poking at me, but overall I feel much more able to handle it. The days are getting longer, I’m still taking my meds, and I’m making myself be more social. I’ve even started dating a bit, and my libido, which had disappeared for months, has come back with a vengeance. (yeah!)

I’m writing this now to assure you that it DOES get better! Two months ago I couldn’t to see a way I could ever be happy again, but I’ve some how found a way.

You WILL get better. Honest.

http://scribbling-woman.blogspot.com/2012/03/treading-water.html?m=1

depressioncomix:

depression comix #38

depressioncomix:

depression comix #37

I suffer from chronic chemical depression. It’s not caused by a situation or my past, or my present. It is caused by a lack of chemicals in my brain. And I’m not going to be mad at myself over it anymore. (Ok, I am, but I’m going for strong here, so go with me.) It’s like hating myself for not having gills. No gills is normal for me. It means it’s easier to drown, but that’s the breaks.

 

I had, by all accounts, a prefect childhood. My parents are amazing, I went to good schools, I had great friends who I’m still friends with today. I had enough to eat and was allowed to do the things I liked and was pretty good at a lot of things. But I have never been any good at coping. Any little thing can completely derail my focus, my nerve, and my self-esteem. Right now, at the job I love, I have posted a button that says “Don’t Panic” and a little black and white picture with the words “If things go wrong, don’t go with them”. And I need these reminders. They don’t keep me from running to the bathroom to weep quietly in a stall ALL the time, but they do some of the time, and that’s enough.

 

A couple of years ago, I slipped into a DEEP depression. I had to give away my cat and it just triggered all sorts of awful. My husband brought me food and made me eat some of it, but he gave up getting me out of bed. I was staying. This was my new home.

 

But my Dad called, and every day, I had a new, little task.

 

Day one: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Sit in the living room. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it took me 2 hours to get into the living room, clean and dressed. And it was HARD. And all the while, berating myself that I had no reason to be THIS sad, my cat had a new home, he was happier, everything was ok. No go.

 

Day two: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Make yourself breakfast. Go out onto the porch. Hard. As. Fuck. BUT… the depression had ebbed just the tiniest bit since yesterday. There were only 999 knives slicing at me instead of 1,000. It still hurt like hell, and I was still pretty useless, but… it was better. Just a little.

 

Day 3: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Make and eat breakfast. Go to the park and people watch. (me: I don’t WANT to go into public. I don’t WANT to see happy people. Dad: I know, but go anyway.) The sun helped. Getting out of my own space helped. Now there were 997 knives.

 

Day 4: Get out of bed. Shower. Put on clean clothes. Make and eat breakfast. Go to the grocery store. (me: I don’t think I can make it thru the grocery shopping. Dad: Make a short list, and stick to it. If you can’t get everything on it, you can go back tomorrow. But I think you can get everything on it.) Going to the grocery store is a pain in the ass. So I don’t want to go twice this week. Ok, I can suck it up and do this. I buy the groceries. 996 knives in the store. 990 knives when I get home with the shopping.

 

And so on. I called my dad, he gave me tiny new tasks to do, and I did them. I still spent a lot of time crying, and sitting staring into space, but less time was spent on that each day. And eventually… well, I was mostly ok. Of course I was hit with another bout later. And another and another. And I don’t always have time now to go quite that incremental (though if it gets that bad, there’s not a lot of other options).

 

So, if you have someone in your life, even someone who you don’t want to impose on, who you think will really hate doing this for you, but you think is responsible enough to do it- ask. Check in with them weekly. Tell them that if they don’t hear from you on the call-in day, you need them to call you.

 

Alcoholics and drug addicts have sponsors. Athletes have coaches. Artists have mentors. Pick a sponsor/coach/mentor. If it doesn’t work out in the future, get a new one. But get yourself that lifeline. Because we deserve to get what we need. We deserve a life of happiness. You have a handicap, but you don’t need to let it define you or consume you.

I promise you are loved.

 

If you feel you have NO ONE or would prefer a little more anonymity in your process, OR you would like to reach out and help someone by e-mailing them once a week, or both, e-mail me at friend.silverribbon@yahoo.com