No Anvils

Five months ago, I decide no more anti-depressants. I get blood work done.

Despite my challenges, I get B12 shots. A shit-ton of them. I start taking 5,000, then 10,000, IUs of vitamin D and a thyroid medication.

I stop eating gluten. My fatigue goes away, but my depression worsens.

I have thoughts. Not suicidal thoughts, but ones like, “If this is what life is, why would I ever want to inflict this on a child?” And feelings. Crushing feelings, which make me stand in the middle of my living room with my hands on my face, unable to move.

Three-and-a-half weeks ago, despite the fact that my insurance doesn’t cover them, I start taking amino acids. My osteopath says, “Take these 14 pills every day, and come back in a week.”

“A week?” I say.

“Yes, a week. You’ll know in a week.”

A week goes by.

Nothing.

“OK,” says he, “add this one, four of ’em, and come back in a week.” Eighteen pills a day. Very expensive pills. Not covered by my insurance.

Another week goes by. Still having moments where I might as well be under an anvil. Times when all the circumstances point to joy, times when my friends are saying,  “Isn’t this great?” And I think, “It should be. But no, it’s not.”

“Right then,” says my osteopath, “take four more of this last one, and come back in a week. If there’s been no change, we’ll do a urine test.” For one hundred eighty dollars. Not covered by my insurance.

I’m still depressed, and I’m mad and sad about being depressed, and I’m hopeless that I’ll ever not be depressed. I continue to swallow 22 pills a day. Very expensive pills.

And then last Wednesday afternoon, at the gym, I smile, genuinely smile. And I joke with the trainer, and I feel a lightness of being that I remember from long ago. I think back. For the previous couple of days, no anvils.

Immediately, I worry that it’s a fluke, it’ll go away, I’ll never find it again. But for an hour, maybe two, I actually. feel. good.

The rest of the week goes by. No anvils.

Last night, I’m at C & K‘s house, gabbing, singing along to “Sloop John B”, warming my back against the fire. And I think, “Isn’t this great?”

Hm.

Dear Neighbors

Where I’m from, on that winding stretch of Old Highway 421 between Boone and Mountain City, we lift a finger. Or rather, lift a fanger.

I don’t mean we help other people, thought we do that too. I’m referring to the gesture we make in our car as another car passes in the opposite direction. We lift a fanger. That is, we pick one or two fingers up off the steering wheel in a modified wave, to greet the other driver.

Old habits die hard. I would lift a fanger at the folks traveling down my country road when I lived in Hillsborough. Often, they would wave back.

Now I live in your neighborhood in downtown Durham, and as I walk the dogs, my impulse is still to wave. But it’s hard. Wrangling 140 pounds of pit bull, and simultaneously acknowledging my neighbors’ existence is hard.

I say all this because I want you to know that if it looks like I’m hoisting a bag of dog poop and slinging it in your direction, that’s just my attempt to be friendly. Sorry if there’s been any confusion.

Your neighbor,

Amy