Delightful Debauchery
I’ve tried all week to be productive; it hasn’t worked out well. I couldn’t get motivated to do anything but eat some edibles, play MarioKart on my phone — I don’t even have a proper gaming system — watch Frasier reruns and old movies and drink tequila. To be honest, I’m not that mad about it. It was fun and about as debaucherous as one can be while sheltering-in-place.
“Fun” is probably not the right word, since it was actually just a big ol’ pity party.
I have these little “pity parties” every so often. They help me come to terms when I’m feeling depressed — not the kind of depressed that makes me want to jump off a bridge or eat a bottle of pills, more like a crippling inability to care. I can’t claim that it can be as debilitating as more severe depression, but it certainly feels that way when I’m in the throes of it.
It started last Saturday when my sister called to tell me that our father had finally come to the conclusion that it was time to start researching care facilities for our mother. This shouldn’t have been such a great shock; she’s been battling Alzheimer’s for a while now and declining rapidly in the last year or so. But it took my sister and me months to convince our dad that he needed more help taking care of her. He finally got someone to check in a couple of times a week and help with bathing, cleaning, etc., but has remained adamant that she be at home with him as long as possible. The shock of hearing it’s bad enough now that he’s almost ready for the transition to full-time care hit me like a ton of bricks. Naturally, that first day I didn’t even try to face it. Instead I drank too much tequila with my neighbor, which led to a big, stupid fight with my boyfriend and then me bursting into tears the next morning and sobbing on his shoulder (fortunately, he knew I was deflecting from the get-go — scary how well he knows me).
Fortunately, my sister is an amazing human being and we get along very well. She was able to help me start processing (somewhat), but between the news about mom and a perfectly timed hormone influx, I was thrown into a state of mild despondency. Which I solved with more tequila, edibles, and Frasier. I know most head shrinkers would advise against substances and general self-medicating when dealing with depression and emotional turmoil, but I’ve found that a high concentration of CBD (and a little THC) gives me a good dose of clarity. It helps me to observe what I’m feeling and know that it’s ok. It’s natural to be sad when your mother is sick — far better to be sad than to be throwing a party. Unless, of course, it’s a pity party (and no, the tequila doesn’t really help with anything — it’s just delicious).
On another fortuitous note, my meditation app has spent this past week exploring the varying degrees and aspects of depression. And I’ll be damned if that Tamara Levitt isn’t just the best at helping me see things from a different perspective. Through these last several sessions I’ve realized how lucky I am to have been blessed with my parents. Obviously, no parent is perfect, but mine loved and supported us and each other in ways I think, sadly, few humans have the privilege of witnessing. I thought of all of the times that I was in some emotional upheaval or another, and my mom convinced me that everything was going to be okay. Don’t get me wrong, the woman could also drive me bat-shit crazy, even before she started going bat-shit crazy, but on the whole she was a good person and a great mom and I miss her. I know she’s still here physically, but her mind left us quite some time ago. That’s the cruelest part of Alzheimer’s; you have to say good-bye twice. I’ve said good-bye to the mom that I knew, but I have a sneaking suspicion that won’t make this next transition, nor the final one, any easier.
Y’all might wanna hide your tequila.
