Maybe I'm the asshole

 I love a good lazy Sunday. Catching up on housework for a bit and then spending the rest of the day relaxing or eating brunch with friends. Doing a little day drinking.  Practicing self-care-Sunday. Taking a nap. It’s usually on days like this when I get to see how much we’ve put off during the week. 

For example, we have a fun game in our house that we like to play where we see how many times we can open the lid of the trashcan in the kitchen and smash down the garbage as far as it will go in an effort to hopefully repeat that same maneuver enough times during the week that you only have to take out the trash twice—once a week if you push down hard enough. I mean, like get your back into it. Jude is really good at this game. It could possibly be the only exercise he gets each week. He’s even perfected his move by using a clean paper plate to cover the top of the trash so his hands stay clean. We have a lot of fun games like this—like cover up the clean clothes on your bed with your bedspread so you don’t have to fold them, or hide dirty dishes in your room so you don’t have to load the dishwasher, or move the table in the kitchen over so it covers the spot where you dripped your chocolate milk and didn’t feel like cleaning it up right then because you’re playing video games. But then on Sunday, all of these games have to come to an end and actual cleaning has to take place so you can do it all over again during the week.

Speaking of coming to terms with your Dumpster-fire life on a Sunday, it seems my last blog post about depression stirred some feelings for people. I was surprised by the number of people that reached out to me via social media, messenger, or text and told me what they were going through with their children or themselves or a family member. It’s been eye-opening for me because writing about what it’s like to live with someone with severe depression helped me realize why so people have sort of disappeared from my life after Robby died. For a long time, I was really mad at some people because I felt like they turned their backs on the kids and me. I thought after Robby died, I’d have people over here checking on us and making sure I was invited to their parties and events. But then I’d see crap on social media about how they were out living life and seeing other friends or whatever and I’d say something to Veronica about it. Usually, it was after a glass of wine and it would go something like, “Fuck those people.” I know that’s not very nice, but it’s the truth. And she’d tell me I was over-reacting and that she didn’t feel that way. She’d say, “They are probably still sad about Robby, and they don’t know how to be around us. It’s hard to be around people when you are sad. I know. And I’m not mad and you shouldn’t be either.”

Well, damn. She’s a smart girl. And I’d like to take a little credit for all the thousands of dollars I have spent on her therapy except when she ‘reads me,’ she’s usually 100% correct. And it’s humbling.

After she calmed me down, I’d feel a little bad for feeling that way. A little bad, lol. I’m still angry sometimes and I never know what will bring it on. And some of you are probably reading this and wondering if I ever said, “fuck you” about you. Honestly, there is no telling. That's how emotions work. Sometimes they make no sense to anyone except you. 

It’s kind of funny what we think about but especially what we think others think about us. And like my mama used to tell me, they probably aren’t thinking about you as much as you think about them because they are thinking about themselves and trying to survive like the rest of us. 

Why do we waste so much energy creating these scenarios in our heads where we wonder who is mad at us? Who is talking about us? And it’s a vicious cycle with depression because you’re too depressed or you have too much anxiety to see people or reach out to them, but then you feel guilty and like the worst friend in the world and that makes the distance even greater because you don't even know where to start once that fog lifts a little. But we never tell people that. We never say, “I’m a fucked up mess right now so please listen to the music while I try to get my shit together.” We put on a smile, post our obnoxious things on social media, and just hope everyone thinks we are fine. We’re fine, right?

I never really put a lot of thought into why people were keeping their distance from me. That’s a lie. I put so much time into it. Like a stupid amount of time and I can tell you, I was wrong every time I tried to guess why I wasn’t hearing from someone. And now I know the answer was there all along, and I didn’t listen to it because I think I’m smarter than my daughter. I think I have the world figured out and it’s my job to teach her how things work. But she gets it. She knows why people keep their distance. Why they sit in their homes and close the shades and never pick up the phone to check in but spend a crazy amount of time on social media posting memes and being funny. Now I can see that behind that Wordle post for the day, is most likely a very depressed person, barely capable of being able to get out of bed in the morning. They have the energy to hit 'like' on your post about finding the best grilled cheese sandwich in town, but they can’t find a way to ask you how you are doing, let alone put their arms around you and hold you while you cry a little. They can’t say they love you, but they can post a photo of their dog on the couch wearing glasses and get all those laughing face emojis to feel somewhat normal for the day. They can wave and smile when they drive past but they can’t stop the car and roll down the window to have an actual conversation. They’ll turn down your offer to meet for dinner because they say they are tired, but what you don’t know is they are tired because they haven’t slept for three entire days because their anxiety is off the charts and every time their head hits the pillow, a million thoughts come in and keep them awake all night. 

And I guess it’s none of my business what you are going through and what it does to your relationships. Your day is bad enough without knowing that I’m at home saying “fuck those people” to my daughter. But being honest about her depression helped me see that something she said one night during one of my wine-infused pity parties was pretty spot on—maybe you're the one with the problem? Maybe I am. Damn you, overpriced therapist. 

Maybe my friends that I have felt abandoned by are just trying to survive through the week and rather than take the time to address what’s going on, I’m taking that clean paper plate and smashing down on their problems in an effort to keep my hands clean and avoid the hard conversation. I keep smashing it down but at some point, the trash gets to the top and you have to address it or lose those relationships. Because if I wanted to know, I guess I could always ask. I mean, that’s what I would tell my children and my friends to do. Just ask them. Pretty simple. Maybe I am the asshole. Maybe not. (I totally am, BTW). 

But who really cares who is right and who is wrong in this situation? We are all just trying to survive in our way. We all need love and I’m sorry if I was an asshole to you. If it makes you feel better, sometimes I’m an asshole to myself and I should probably give myself more hugs and forgiveness on a lazy Sunday as part of my new self-care routine. And you should do the same. Starting now.