Every day I die inside. Outside too. I inhabit a husk of desperation and insecurity. Sometimes it physically manifests, hair falling out, lines and wrinkles manifesting, spots, aches, drooping nipples (not real, just thought that sounded funny), metabolism reaching panda-esque levels, a body giving up. This happened seemingly all at once. Of course, that could just be my fragile synapses flailing to grasp at any meaning as they scream their last breath in my atrophying mind, but it is my mind, it is the place I still have to filter all experiences and search for decayed memory. But it seems these small deaths started to become more apparent when I had a child.
Maybe it just became more magnified when looking at this ball of potential and new life. Looking at this tiny person learning something new every day, growing, the overwhelming sense of wonder beaming off of her really shines a light on my unrepentant putrefying deterioration. But it also feels like after she was born my body decided, “Well, this is it. You have fulfilled your biological imperative. Time to pack it in.” So, now my body is trying to signal to the rest of the world, “Don’t worry about this one, this creature is not worthy of attention and wreaks of death. Hands off.”
Needless to say, these realizations come with an enhanced depression. I already grapple with bouts of depression, occasionally sinking into the abyss of self-loathing and hopelessness. Then, when it seems like the darkness has enveloped me completely, a hand reaches into the inky black to try and pull me out, if for nothing else, to salvage me for parts.
Two things did just that this past week. The first was the excellent The Rise and Fall of Harry Hamid. Who was kind enough to
nominate me for a Liebster Award. Normally, I would ignore this kind gesture, but Harry wrote something that struck me, which, to paraphrase, was, “it only takes a moment…be kind…blogging is a community.” And I can’t argue with that. I truly have a fondness for anyone who visits, comments, etc.
It seems as though Harry didn’t follow the “rules” which are to ask some questions, and for neglecting that portion, I say, thank you. I’ll also nominate some folks I appreciate: Joannerambling (a personal blog that also injects an occasional history post), Janie Junebug (A deranged grammar snob who is actually helpful about it. Terrible description, but she’s eclectic.), Mayor Gia (she feels like the sister I should have had instead of the one I got, if that makes sense), Life By Chocolate (worth it for the tales of her dating alone), and Can We Have A New Witch Ours Melted (she does a Wet Dog Wednesday that is always delightful).
The other thing pulling me out of the sludge like in The Princess Bride when dude dove into the quicksand, was when my spouse and I pieced together that one of our couple friends (you know, like they aren’t really friend friends, but you’d invite them to a barbecue or coworker thing, yet, if you were going to re-do your wedding you’d only invite them if you thought they’d buy you a sweet present) through some deduction, are swingers! Hooray! I’ve never met swingers before!
The best part is that they introduced us to the couple they swing with. This is awesome. It’s kind of weird because I don’t want to think about them having sex, but I do have a thousand questions. Do they do it in front of each other? Do they realize that there’s a real imbalance in which partner is getting the better looking partner? Does that matter? Why are you inviting your new swinger couple friends to parties at other people’s houses? Who initiated this (you know it was one of their ideas and had to start the very awkward conversation)? I’ll probably never get to ask them directly…but now there’s the possibility. The world is new. Go forth into this brave, terrifying wilderness with a renewed sense of wonder, hope and appreciation, fellow internet weirdos.