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| Author: |
Dennie Theodore |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, November 04 2003 @ 06:44 AM EST |
| Viewed: |
1835 times |
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Ruminations on Depression - a theatrical monologue
One actor - female - late 30’s
A woman enters in her bathrobe, her hair in disarray.
"Oh for god’s sake, you all look so serious. No, no, don’t worry so much! You’re all obviously ahead of me. Look, see, most of you are dressed. And dressed nicely. Which means you made it out of bed so it can’t be that bad. Except for you. Yes, you. No, no, you look perfectly happy but I was wondering….. You’ve got a smile, like you understand what I’m saying.
Nevermind, no need to tell me your secrets. I’d rather talk about my own anyway. Let them out of the dark as it were. They look just as scruffy in daylight but I can usually stomp on them faster when I can actually see them.
(demonstrates stomping) Gotcha! Take that! Stupid little worry!
Ok. I’ll stop.
There’s a fine line between being crazy and being funny. My aunt once told me she thought my uncle was crazy. He wasn’t crazy. He was just unhappy. He moaned and complained and saw spilled milk where there was none. Of course, she should’ve known this because she was unhappy too. Only with her it was lots of housecleaning and baking and being organized.
My mother always said I imagined my aunt was unhappy. And I never did ask my aunt straight out. Or my uncle. Maybe they liked living that way. I mean, how do you know if someone is unhappy? Or just sad? Or seriously depressed? When I’m sad I eat. When I’m depressed for real, I stop eating. It usually takes me a few days to even notice. If I can’t catch my own habits, I guess maybe my mother could be right about my aunt.
I am a sight, aren’t I. But this is only a problem if I was going to go out. Nope. Today, I stay in. No grocery shopping, no work, no visits, no nothing. It’s Saturday and I put this day aside to wallow in my misery. I have to schedule my downtime around everyone else’s. Though there’s no food in the house so maybe I should wonder if that was in my plan.
It’s amazing how many food images there are around feeling gross. Like…is your glass half empty or half full. Of what? of beer? of salt water? Or life is just a bowl of cherries - don’t take it serious… isn’t that an old song? Sunny side up. Happy as a clam. In the soup. Or is that about being in trouble? And how about those new chocolate bars they’re marketing to women for stress and PMS?
Like food can make you happy. Or content. Ok it can. But I still have trouble with everyone after me to be ‘happy’. How will I know what the highs are if I don’t have the lows? Of course you need a balance. But I bet my aunt was pretty content with life whenever she caught up with her laundry. And my uncle! Well, he loved hearing about other people’s problems - the worse the better! Especially if someone died, tragically, unexpectedly, with mystery and a touch of gore.
I don’t why. I don’t know if what makes us happy changes depending on if we’re at the half full or half empty glass stage.
I would have liked to ask them though.
See, I’m 38 years old and I hate my job. Really. Hate it. I drag myself out of bed every day. No matter how much money I’m not making, I go in empty and come out emptier. It’s not a bad job. It’s just not …. I’m grateful you know. I am. It’s tough for everyone and I can’t exactly make a living teaching history like I thought. So I’m good at computers and they pay me to get even better.
And I sort of wonder if everyone is like this and I’m just not settling into the compromises. What would people really do if they had the chance? And why aren’t we doing it? Why am I doing something that makes me feel so damn useless?
And lonely.
I have friends. I date now and then too. Not enough sex in there but even my married friends moan about that. Come on, raise your hands if you get enough sex. Thought so. Do you do what I do? Not call your friends because you assume they’ve got enough on their plates with their own problems? And try to listen when they call about their problems but really just think about your own.
Which leaves me lonely, though most days I think that’s a blessing. I’m no burden to anyone and not forced to take on anyone else’s.
So that makes me much like everyone else, except I’m here in my bathrobe griping about my job and my nympho tendencies and there’s nothing really wrong! But I wake up at 3 a.m. and cry. 3 a.m. is the worst, isn’t it? You sob and sob. Hot tears and no comfort. I hold myself. I sometime rock myself back to sleep. And sometimes I simply cross my arms over the pain in my chest. No wonder so many folk die in the early hours of the morning. It’s the most desolate hour of the day. If I could only sleep through it, I’d never know I wasn’t happy. Or content.
I’m not in crisis. I have no right to complain. But everything is a crisis. Is this bad? Is this normal? Is this what the start of my mid-life crisis is supposed to feel like? Or is it simply that I haven’t started anything yet? For god’s sake, someone must know?
There are cures you know. You can get pills, and bottles, and therapists, and bartenders, and even buy entire self-help sections at the bookstore. You can go online and surf or chat; you can go offline and hibernate. You can moan to anyone who will listen. I think I kind of encouraged my uncle. Or you can impose order and deny the existence of evil. Like my aunt.
My mother once told my aunt to laugh. Really. It was one of the last visits I had with them as a teenager. My mother dragged me away from planning a trip to the mall with some friends and told me it did my aunt good to see me. I didn’t see it. The woman wiped everything I touched seconds after I touched it. And never had good things for snacks. And I spent half the time watching tv with my uncle who flicked through the news programs looking for disaster reports.
I said as much to my mother. Who pulled into a convenience store lot and promptly came back with a box of chocolates. The visit started out like all the others. My aunt wiped and tidied and scowled. My uncle flicked and moaned. And my mother suddenly sprang up, draped my aunt’s coat about her shoulders and dragged us all out for a walk. Well, my uncle didn’t go but my aunt did. And we unwrapped the chocolates and ate them while we walked. And my mother told my aunt the worst joke… I remember! A penguin is driving one hot summer day when his car dies. So he coasts into a service station and the guy tells him it will be about an hour. So the penguin waddles off to get an ice cream. Vanilla ice cream, of course, because it’s his favourite. Being a penguin, he can’t hold the cone well and ends up with ice cream all over his beak and flippers as he heads back to the service station. He gets there and the service guy turns to him and says… sorry Mr. Penguin, it looks like you’ve blown a seal. And the penguin protests in horror... oh no! it’s only ice cream! Did we laugh. And then my aunt passed a sign on the community centre that said they needed volunteers for a bake sale. I think that was the start of the baking.
When we got back, my mother hugged my aunt and said it was good to hear her laugh and see her stick her face in the sun. My aunt flapped her arm at us and complained about freckles. But she laughed again. And ate another chocolate.
I don’t know. Simplistic or simple? Chocolate as a cure? Laughter. Sunshine. Purpose. My mother knew more than she let on. Maybe it was just her. But maybe today I’ll have a bite of chocolate. Or maybe brush up my resume. Or go out for a walk. With my head up to see the people approaching. You can put on make up or scrub with a rasor. It won’t make a bit of difference. I’m thinking now that the only way to erase 3 a.m. from your face, is to stick it in the sunshine.
You with the smile… you know what I’m saying."
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Alone and lonely.
And was welcomed by you. Your heartfelt embrace will make my walk to the bus stop to get to the "job" a gift. Merci mille fois.