Wow. That Was Really Bad.
Anyone who's read this blog for since late 2005 knows that Sam's mom and I are separated, and that I've been plagued by angst and foul moods ever since. I've mentioned in previous posts the depression thatmoves in like a thunderstorm within days after he returns for Canada [please pardon the worn-out metaphor of storm clouds for depression; the great, grey masses and the low pressure are simply representatives without parallel.]
This time was no exception: he went home on Saturday evening, and after a delay of about three days, everything came crashing down by Wednesday or Thursday. By Friday... yeesh. We had a half-day at work to finally throw out holiday party (postponed once due to snow, and then a second time due to incompetence). The bash was in a great room in a bar I would never ordinarily visit: Finnigan's Wake.
I'm going to digress for a moment. Finnigan's is known as a cop's bar, as well as a meat market during the weekends, but on the second floor they have functions in the Lincoln Room, which has a great story surrounding it. A space cut out in the floor, lined with bannisters, looks down on the first-floor bar. A casket has been attached to one of the railings, in tribute to the building's original purpose as a casket factory. Indeed, the factory manufactured the casket that Abraham Lincoln was buried in: it's alittle known fact that after the assasination at Ford's Theatre, the 16th President was brought to Philadelphia, where he laid in state at Independence Hall.
The owner of Finnigan's Wake was standing outside his brand-new, just opened bar when a random dogwalker engaged him in a conversation about the building and its history. "My mother," said the dogwalker, "owns the funeral home where Lincoln laid before bewing placed in the casket. It's been converted from a fuineral home to an apartment building, but most of the original woodwork is still there..." Finnigan's owner hurried upt he street and managed to buy the actual doors that Lincoln's lifeless body was wheeled through: they are mounted on the wall, surrounded by Civil War memorabilia.
Back from my digression: Churchill's black dog had made itself at home a few days prior, its teeth anchored deep in my leg, but it had been tolerable anough that i could manage a sickly grin and respond "Oh, pretty good" when my colleagues at the office would chirp "Good morning, how are you". As Friday wore on, the dog grew bigger, and after an hour or so at the holiday party, surrounded by co-workers laughing, dancing, and drinking beer, I began to feel tired, irritable, and anti-social. It is no wonder that another word for "party-pooper" is "wet blanket". I felt exactly as if a heavy, wet, wool blanket had been dropped on my head, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. The insistent beat of the drum machine and the shouting of the hip hop "artist" throbbed in tandem with the blood rushing through my temples, and my eyelids sunk as I glanced around the room and sipped my beer. People were getting dragged onto the dance floor at random, and I knew that if I stayed I'd be impressed into jerking around like a broken marionette to music I don't like even when I'm in a GOOD mood. I got up and began looking at the 150-year old newspapers as if they were museum piece, moving inexorably toward the elevator, where I had wisely piled my coat and a present for Sam when I had arrived. Prescient, that.
I escaped the party unimpeded, although I am sure there will be questions about my whereabouts when I get back to work. When I got home it was 4:30; I took off my pants and crawled into bed, where I slept like a lead pipe until almost 7:00 pm. When I awoke, I didn' feel any better, but I knew that if I didn't get up, I'd be sitting awake and miserable until 3:00 in the morning. Shower... hot water beating off my back, deeply breathing the steam. Kitchen... used the last of my coconut milk and tofu to make some thai food; followed by a bowl or two and some beer; followed by some leftover tunafish; followed by another bowl and a beer; followed by television. Oh sweet television and your gallery of familiar morons, how you comfort me, from the career-ending bad writing and acting at "King of Queens" and "Numb3rs" (Jerry Stiller, you hit your nadir on this dreck; Rob Morrow, don't you wish you'd stuck with "Northern Exposure"?; short guy from "Ally MacBeal", don't you wish you'd never agreed to that singing crap?), to the history of lint on (where else) PBS.
All this time, the blanket never went away. I was supposed to brew today, but it may have to wait until tomorrow, because it took a lot out of me just to pull on a pair of jeans and walk out to the car to get the yeast and malt I'd left out there the night before. I was in bed by 11:30, and slept until almost 10:00 this morning.
I feel better now, although it may be a temporary reprieve. But man, that was really bad. It wasn't just "unhappiness" which is what I always associate with depression. It was the sheer lack of energy, the inability to remain vertical, the clouds that covered clear thinking, the physical swampiness, that got me.
It happens every time the boy leaves. Every. Single. Time. Is this something I'll be dealing with for the rest of my life?
This time was no exception: he went home on Saturday evening, and after a delay of about three days, everything came crashing down by Wednesday or Thursday. By Friday... yeesh. We had a half-day at work to finally throw out holiday party (postponed once due to snow, and then a second time due to incompetence). The bash was in a great room in a bar I would never ordinarily visit: Finnigan's Wake.
I'm going to digress for a moment. Finnigan's is known as a cop's bar, as well as a meat market during the weekends, but on the second floor they have functions in the Lincoln Room, which has a great story surrounding it. A space cut out in the floor, lined with bannisters, looks down on the first-floor bar. A casket has been attached to one of the railings, in tribute to the building's original purpose as a casket factory. Indeed, the factory manufactured the casket that Abraham Lincoln was buried in: it's alittle known fact that after the assasination at Ford's Theatre, the 16th President was brought to Philadelphia, where he laid in state at Independence Hall.
The owner of Finnigan's Wake was standing outside his brand-new, just opened bar when a random dogwalker engaged him in a conversation about the building and its history. "My mother," said the dogwalker, "owns the funeral home where Lincoln laid before bewing placed in the casket. It's been converted from a fuineral home to an apartment building, but most of the original woodwork is still there..." Finnigan's owner hurried upt he street and managed to buy the actual doors that Lincoln's lifeless body was wheeled through: they are mounted on the wall, surrounded by Civil War memorabilia.
Back from my digression: Churchill's black dog had made itself at home a few days prior, its teeth anchored deep in my leg, but it had been tolerable anough that i could manage a sickly grin and respond "Oh, pretty good" when my colleagues at the office would chirp "Good morning, how are you". As Friday wore on, the dog grew bigger, and after an hour or so at the holiday party, surrounded by co-workers laughing, dancing, and drinking beer, I began to feel tired, irritable, and anti-social. It is no wonder that another word for "party-pooper" is "wet blanket". I felt exactly as if a heavy, wet, wool blanket had been dropped on my head, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. The insistent beat of the drum machine and the shouting of the hip hop "artist" throbbed in tandem with the blood rushing through my temples, and my eyelids sunk as I glanced around the room and sipped my beer. People were getting dragged onto the dance floor at random, and I knew that if I stayed I'd be impressed into jerking around like a broken marionette to music I don't like even when I'm in a GOOD mood. I got up and began looking at the 150-year old newspapers as if they were museum piece, moving inexorably toward the elevator, where I had wisely piled my coat and a present for Sam when I had arrived. Prescient, that.
I escaped the party unimpeded, although I am sure there will be questions about my whereabouts when I get back to work. When I got home it was 4:30; I took off my pants and crawled into bed, where I slept like a lead pipe until almost 7:00 pm. When I awoke, I didn' feel any better, but I knew that if I didn't get up, I'd be sitting awake and miserable until 3:00 in the morning. Shower... hot water beating off my back, deeply breathing the steam. Kitchen... used the last of my coconut milk and tofu to make some thai food; followed by a bowl or two and some beer; followed by some leftover tunafish; followed by another bowl and a beer; followed by television. Oh sweet television and your gallery of familiar morons, how you comfort me, from the career-ending bad writing and acting at "King of Queens" and "Numb3rs" (Jerry Stiller, you hit your nadir on this dreck; Rob Morrow, don't you wish you'd stuck with "Northern Exposure"?; short guy from "Ally MacBeal", don't you wish you'd never agreed to that singing crap?), to the history of lint on (where else) PBS.
All this time, the blanket never went away. I was supposed to brew today, but it may have to wait until tomorrow, because it took a lot out of me just to pull on a pair of jeans and walk out to the car to get the yeast and malt I'd left out there the night before. I was in bed by 11:30, and slept until almost 10:00 this morning.
I feel better now, although it may be a temporary reprieve. But man, that was really bad. It wasn't just "unhappiness" which is what I always associate with depression. It was the sheer lack of energy, the inability to remain vertical, the clouds that covered clear thinking, the physical swampiness, that got me.
It happens every time the boy leaves. Every. Single. Time. Is this something I'll be dealing with for the rest of my life?
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