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“Calgon–Take me away!” I feel like that commercial a lot these days. Only three days into my winter, and all ready it’s past the point of going with the flow. I know I said, that I refused to buy into it this year. But then, who thought that you could by sheer determination eradicate those blue feelings? Oh, for a time you can, but the work involved is tiring, and at times, too tiring to continue.
I pray more that usual. I pray this every morning:
And as I cannot in my own strength do this, nor even with a hope of success attempt it, I look to thee, O Lord God my Father, in Jesus my Savior, and ask for the gift of the Holy Spirit.
The danger of relinquishing power to God, and admitting that you cannot do something without God’s help, is that you won’t succeed ever. And consequently, you may conclude that you are “not doing it right” not praying enough, or the right way, or that simply, God has concluded that you are not good enough to be entitled to his beneficence.
This is dangerous ground, especially to those of fragile emotional makeup. In the hands of the seriously mentally ill, it can be the final straw of unworthiness, leading down a slope that ends in death. Not good. We must, I must, think this through in a different way, one that does not lay the onus of failure at my own doorstep as it were, or at least not leave me thinking that God has abandoned me.
God has not. Sometimes the answer is, “girl, you need to work this through. In the end it won’t help you if I just fix it.” God remains as the comforter, the one who holds me close as I bemoan my circumstances. God remains as my chief enthusiastic supporter and promoter.
And truth is, my circumstances are not horrid at all. Looked at objectively, they are hardly bothersome at all. We are in the midst of another snow storm, but it’s not leaving a lot of snow behind. Just lousy driving conditions for the day. Enough to cancel an appointment in Iowa City, a bit more than an hour in normal driving time. Postponing things is my only issue as it were. Not something that should get anyone all that down.
But I’m not acting particularly normal. That is the problem with depression, mild or severe. You really can’t pinpoint why you feel dejected, lazy, hopeless, and all the other downer feelings. And that’s why it grinds at you. You don’t know how to fix it, since you can’t point to anything in particular as the “cause.” It’s the weather, the lack of sunshine, the tenuousness of plans made, the need to play it by ear.
I don’t like spontaneity much. I like my plans made, and carried out on time. I am a creature of order and schedule. I am a believer in delayed gratification. I can no more sit and enjoy a book with housework left to do than I can do a legitimate push-up. I admire Martha Stewart, except for the fact that she is obviously, at least to me, wayyyyyyyyy compulsive and controlling. I admire her organization.
I defend this of course. It’s not compulsion for me. It’s order. I don’t want to waste time looking for things, or forgetting I have them. A place for everything and everything in it’s place. Thankfully I am not extreme, and plenty of stuff is not in its place each day. The Contrarian functions with NOTHING in its place. He can watch a movie and then go outside and get wood. I get the wood and then watch the movie.
His way is better. He always sees the movie; I often have to pass because the shoulds take too long and run into another responsibility and the movie goes by the wayside. Still, I cannot stop. I feel relaxed with order. Chaos makes me anxious. Not as anxious as Mr. Monk. I want you to clearly understand that. I don’t have a fetish for even lines and even numbers. That would be crazy, and no I am not crazy. I certainly am not!
This post was supposed to be about how I am not interested in political issues right now, and I don’t know what that means to this blog. It then morphed into a description of how I view God’s role on earth, but I managed as well to sidestep that too. I have ended giving a rather schizophrenic rendition of my idiosyncrasies. That’s fine, you must have some too, right?
I’m certainly hoping you do, otherwise I’ll be feeling particularly nutty. And that’s something I don’t think of myself as being. Rather, I rather consistently remind the Contrarian that he is the crazy one. I delight in looking at him during the midst of some discussion about one of his nutty questions, and announcing dramatically, “you’re nuts.” I feel satisfied in doing that, and he dutifully laughs and asks, “what do you meannnnnnn?”
It’s become a thing for us to do. Laughter is our companion during the day. We make each other laugh a lot. He makes up jokes and thinks they are soooo funny, and I restrict him from asking his mind boggling questions to the hour of 3pm to 4 pm. Heck, laughter is our companion during the evening. We laugh a lot. Not maniacal laughter mind you, not the kind that makes your skin crawl and makes you search for a means of retreat and escape. But the good old kind of laughter, at silly commercials, funny lines in a show we are watching, antics of the menagerie of idiot animals we serve. That kind of laughter.
Did you know we have a cat that has a routine for going out? He is the demon spawn Spencer. He meows. This means he wants to go outside. (Meows from other of our cats, mean entirely different things. Pay attention, there will be a test!) You go to the door, him leading the way, and he veers under the kitchen table. You are then required to go to the door and open it, then retreat into the kitchen, giving him a clear path. He sometimes changes his mind and races past you into the living room. You can run all you wish, he will escape you, darting over the bed, around the end, under the wood cart. You collapse in disgust, and five minutes later, he meows again. He may go out this time, but one never knows.
How crazy is that? I mean who runs this place? Clearly not me. No animal in our house goes out with others. That means six idiots all biding their time to wait until I am comfortably ensconced in my chair, and have returned to my knitting. Then, it’s “my turn!” and up I get again. They come in one at a time too. I got up at 4 am today t visit the bathroom. I heard a scratching at the front door. I opened it and Spencer, checking first that all was acatsright, and then bounced in. I went to the kitchen. Hobbes had his nose pressed to the door, and I let him in. Returning to the front door, I checked again, and then returned to the kitchen door. Ahh, there was Calvin, now ready to enter. You see what I mean? They do this deliberately because they enjoy running us human types nuts. But I’m not nuts. We’ve established that already haven’t we?
Anyway, I just wanted to alert you that you should read these posts at your own risk. I have no idea what may come next, but I trust they are therapeutic, or at least I am claiming they are. They are wildly easier to write then pieces that I actually have to research for. So be prepared to suspend your disbelief, or belief, cast logic aside, and enter into the strange world of which I am the ringmaster! If nothing else, they will prove to you just how sane you are, and hey, that’s worth something. Perhaps I am the therapist, and you are the patient? What a trick that would turn out to be, no?