The Monthly Depression

The monthly depression always hits around the end of the month.  I suppose it is really ever present, the sadness, but it visits more strongly near the end of the month. I associate the magnitude of the wave of possession it has on me with my ladies time or the phase of the moon.  The moon is young. Naturally, I must be preparing to bleed.

Today I couldn’t get up.  I didn’t take the kids to school. It’s Tuesday. The television has been on all day in my stead. I tried to work.  I hate the internet.

It’s nearly 2:30pm and the goodness of the girls is running out. It’s my fault, their boredom. They are screaming and chasing and crying at one another.  Bare feet on hardwood pounding back and forth around the house to give a rhythmic cadence to the chaos. I’m going to yell at them like I just did.  I fully expect to be ignored by them both. The ends justify the means.

I Remember Notebooks, Mama.

I hate the internet. Which is unfortunate.

It is my job to be on the internet.  Without the internet, my job ceases to exist. And I become unemployed which is scary and terrible and I hate it.

But I loathe the damn thing. What is the internet? It’s a vacuous suckup that pains me.  It furrows my brow. It has no sunshine, and I stare at it, lose focus, and want to shove it deep under the couch and walk very far away from it. Like to the top of a mountain.

Took the long way to the top. #DemLegsDoh

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I want to run from my computer.  I want a thought extractor– a translator that gets the words in my head out and into the internet without me so much as having to crack a screen or clicking anything. A pen like thought magnetizer. Though, I suppose that it could also be considered a notebook.

I used to write in notebooks all the time. There are volumes on the floor in a blue box by my dresser at the moment. Scratchings that peeled from my head without the worries of backspace & delete interrupting the rush.  Now I find it hard to write without first thinking of ripping out this badboy Acer and tapping out the alphabet on it.  Clicketyclack wordzapt.

Regardless of internet hatred, here I am to write on it.  I think the internet made the act of writing just for the sake of writing, pointless, really. What’s the point of writing in a notebook, when I could be blogging and  “out there” on the internet. For all the world to see.  It sickens me really.  My notebooks were much more fruitful.

Of course, who am I kidding? The internet is not the only culprit I can blame in my decline of writing for pleasure.  The children definitely leave a tasty grand craving for creative space in my mouth.  With the name “Mama” being the chorus of my mornings, afternoons, & evenings I seldom have a splotch for such a trivial thing as self come time to be alone at night.

Speaking of those children. Boy did they get on my nerves today. “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama!”

Somedays, like today, when they won’t let me get a thought to myself in edgewise,  all I’m thinking in my head is, “Daddy, Daddy, where the fuck is your Daddy?” Then I fold a piece of laundry or wash a damn dish, getting more and more agitated as the requests keep rolling in.

Mama, I want juice. Mama, I want a fruit snack.  Mama, come look at this.  Mama, I want some candy.  Mama, can I have ice cream? Mama, can Lucia come over? Mama, can I play computer games? Mama, can you open this? Mama, come here.  Mama, can you button this? Mama, can we go to twisty yogurt bar? Mama, can we go to the park? Mama, can I eat in the living room? Mama, Fern hit me. Mama, Ollie touched my dress.  Mama, Fern bit me. Mama, Ollie (loud cries/whines). Mama, can I have sooooda?

A silenced “SSSSSHHHHHUTUPSHUTUPSSHHHUTUP” slips through my brain, and some bizarre noise escapes my mouth. Man. I hate being a growler.

But today, well, this afternoon, really, that’s what I was.  A growler.  Growling. At the children. With their constant blathering of babble. I’m over it, of course, now.  I snuggled them and tucked them in bed, the Sandman has visited, they are dreaming.It is evening once again & no one is requesting of me anything. Now it’s lovely time.

I’ve got the bedside lamp on, the quilt over my legs, my head nustled in my pillows, the dreaded internet open and upon my lap to tap. The door to the porch is open & I can hear a boy strumming on a guitar.  The crickets are chirping. And I’m feeling quite satisfied.  And I’m feeling like I must get off this damn internet.

Tell You How It All Went Down

Well, I’m happy, that’s for sure.  Happy in a fiercely independent and contentedly co-mingling manner.

I don’t know if I’m making the most prudent decisions, and I don’t particularly want to spill the manner of my stupidities out for the whole kingdom to ponder. My Mama reads this shit. Mama, rest assured, I am totally fine.  And so are the girls. Flying the YOLO flag.

Somewhere along the line I acquired a roommate.  A helper around the house.  An entertainer. Someone that does the lawn and the dishes.  Someone I can sit across the room from and be a friend to.  A musical mate. A guitar teacher. A talker.  A person to fill up the lonely part I’d made peace with.   A handsome smile to light up the room.  Shewlaawww(d). Hoo!

He’s nice, I like him.  We’re friends.  And I’m cool with it.

He’s here for now & he’s paying rent. He’ll be gone soon.

I think.

He’s out there on the porch singing & listening to this. And I’m gonna go join him.