Breakthrough depression and migraines are tantruming children, kicking, biting, continuing to scream even with their mother’s hand clasped over their foaming mouths. Yesterday attacked me with both, and because I have three real life children and all the other things, I summoned the power of the YMCA and my life rules.
I took several very deep breaths, fed everyone, put on my ridiculous shoes that I hate but bought on the internet and can’t return, and drove us all to our favorite place on earth, the Town Lake YMCA. The girls found their friends in childwatch and I found, surprise surprise, this rose out on the trail. But, I also saw Thong Man, who I also see around town with some frequency but choose not to photograph, so I’m hopeful this isn’t a theme.
I mediated on my rules. I did not judge Thong Man. I admired his tan, his confidence, his commitment. I did not judge the women judging Thong Man, nor the tourists taking pictures of him as he strolled smiling along the crushed granite path, his water bottle casting a glimmering shadow against his leathery thigh. I hoped they got the bluebonnets in the background. I considered this to satisfy rule number 4.
I satisfied all of my rules, took all of my medicines, used all of my resources, pushed through the sweetest Maundy Thursday rituals with my daughters, and went to bed with the migraine and the deep sadness, and the stabbing pain.
And I am beginning to wonder when I turn the corner into acceptance? When do I become the person who can accept pain as a gift, drink the cup and whatnot? Because I am not that person yet. I am not that woman who gracefully suffers with Christlike dignity, who falls asleep of Maundy Thursday thinking about how special it is to know him in this small measure of his suffering.
I am still that woman in her ugly shoes, dragging her screaming pain along the trail, just trying shut it up.