A Finely Aged Whine

Depression is a disease that comes and goes. It worsens for a time, and then eases for a time, only to return with a vengeance.

I'm trying, I really am. Trying to see the bright side of things. But I'm used up, depleted, and fresh out of optimism.

I can't fix anybody's problems. I can't even fix my own. All I can do is hang in there until it goes through its cycle. Only thing is, I'm having a hard time shutting out the sadness, the despair, the guilt.

I'm so tired.

She's been going downhill for a while, moreso in the past month. She was nothing but skin and bones -- wasn't eating or drinking much, and her eyes looked so empty. Most of the time she slept in the same spot on the couch. I knew it would be soon, but my heart always said, maybe she can hold on a little longer.

Then she stopped using the litterbox at all. My poor skinny sick feline baby. She came to live with us when she was nine weeks old, and for 15 years, she was pampered, spoiled, and catered to. She had more than enough cat-attitude for ten cats. As I was struggling with the decision to end her suffering, I asked various animal-lovers, how do you know when it's time? They all said, you'll know. She'll tell you when it's time.

Two days ago my daughter, Katie and I took her to the vet for the final time. I think we both started crying before we even got in the car. By God, I hate this! It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

It was over surprising quickly. A sedative first to relax her -- she couldn't tolerate being handled -- it would have been cruel to not sedate her. Then an injection. A couple of shallow choppy breaths and then nothing. There was never a doubt in my mind that I would be with her to love her and stroke her fur softly as she slipped away. My poor baby -- all I can picture in my mind is her limp little body and empty dark eyes. They let us stay with her as long as we needed to to say goodbye. Katie and I wept in each others arms as we watched her still little body, finally at peace, finally pain-free. I covered her with part of the blanket she was laying on, and we left.

I miss her. I can't look at "her spot" on the couch. I keep expecting her to wander into the kitchen to stare a hole through me until I give her a bit of the smoked turkey she loved. I've cried more in the past week than I have in a long time. I keep wondering if I did enough for her.

I want my kitty back.

then just don't say anything? That's what my mother always said. I think mothers have to say insipid things like that so that at least they can say they tried to teach their children manners.

So, if I don't have anything nice to say, then this post will be a whole lot of empty space. Because I sure don't have anything nice to say.

I'm used up, finished, fresh out, done, kaput, and shut down. Nothing nice going on here.

Somewhere through the years, I've lost me. I don't know who I am anymore. I feel like I need a do-over, but I think it's too late. How in the world did I get here?

I don't fit here, meaning here, in Lea's life, any more. Most times, it's all I can do not to shout, "Leave me alone!"

I keep thinking of that old Peggy Lee song. Is that all there is...? In the end, you end up dead anyway, so I guess it doesn't really matter.

Over at my other blog, I'll probably write a post about what a nice day it was, and how sweet my little nieces are, and how nice it is to spend a holiday dinner with family. All of which is true to an extent. Except for my nieces -- they really are very cute and they love their Aunt Mimi which really makes them that much cuter to me.

But the truth is, I am totally exhausted and frustrated. It's times like these that increase the store of resentment that's built up inside me. The cleaning wears me out. The cooking wears me out. I resent very much that I now see holidays as more work than anything else. I wrote to a friend of mine that I missed the days when Easter was all about pretty new clothes (the traditional Easter bonnet), going to church and biting the heads off of chocolate bunnies.

I have been having a bit of a struggle with my friend, the dark hole of depression, and the work only adds to it. I took advantage of my alone time cleaning the bathroom and cried my way through scouring the sink and toilet. The first thing I need to do is hire someone to come in maybe twice a month and clean the house. I hate that I already know my husband will not be thrilled about this, and will most likely give me the silent treatment if I have the balls to actually follow through and hire someone. He won't clean, and I can't anymore. The mood I'm in tonight, he'll just have to deal with it.

Too much work, and it pisses me off that I can't do it. Physically cannot do it any more. I just hate it. And I resent like hell that he doesn't see how I struggle. Or if he sees it, he ignores it.

Sorry, I know this is rambling and disorganized. My brain is rambling and disorganized tonight.