Brenna, the beachcomber

[vaneramos]

Erosion on the Lake Erie beach near Oxley, Ontario


Marian likes long, aimless walks. At Lake Fletcher she will disappear for an hour or two and wander for miles along the forest road. I should say kilometres, but it doesn't have the same ring.

"She walked for miles."

She inherits her love of walking from me.

Brenna's journeys are more purposeful. The beachcomber. This, too, is inherited from me. At Poplar Bluff she might disappear all afternoon, but I always know where to find her. I'll go to the beach, look up and down, and see her in the distance, crouching on the sand, collecting beach glass, fish bones and fossils. Marian walks necessarily alone. But if I approach Brenna she'll come running with things to show me, demanding that I follow her to see things she cannot bring.

Saturday she showed me tide pools under rocks at the head of the beach. From wet sand the sun drew a transparent mist, sliding like light away from the lake and vanishing.

A beach displays the ferocious whims of nature: sand dunes laid down by years of waves and wind, then a single storm gouges into them with a deep bite. Everywhere, the clever footprints of raccoons reveal spring forays.





The past three weeks have been rough for me mood-wise. Lots of anxiety: Monday was the worst. Driving from Poplar Bluff to Windsor, Guelph, Lindsay and home again I spent 10 hours on the road, most of the time feeling the tingling flush of adrenalin. After we dropped Moe off, I tried repeating my mantra in my head and listening to different types of music. Rehearsing my choral music with the CDs helped most, took all concentration into my body and voice, but anxiety returned as soon as I stopped.

This morning I felt the most acute depression I've had in weeks, months, I don't remember. A long time. It came from nowhere, no reason. Gnawing despair. The sense that life is not worth living. I don't get that feeling often anymore. I know it's all in my head. I did the right things: had a little breakfast, then wrote my morning pages. I didn't have the patience to write about anything, so I poured out nonsense. It's better than not writing.

I saw Dr. J. this afternoon. Since returning to the 45 mg dosage of Remeron I'm sleeping better again, but the emotional stability I felt all winter has not returned. She wants to start me on Celexa in addition, and gave me a free sample to try for two weeks.

After the meeting, depression was replaced by anxiety again. Agitation, fear that I was wrong to trust, that I had told her too much, or that what I said with conviction was not really true, that I don't understand myself at all. Fear of talking to anyone, fear of being alone. Mostly afraid because we talked about looking for work, and the thought fills me with dread.

I came home, ate a sandwich, caught up on LJ and calmed down. I feel practically normal now. I hope tomorrow morning is better.

Comments

[ubermunkey.livejournal.com]

here is to tomorrow morning

be well Van

connor

[dakoopst.livejournal.com]

Isn't it nice to know that, even when we have our bad days, better days lie just ahead?

I know that I've been having to rely on that thought myself a bit lately.

*hugs* to you.

[ex-nashobabe711.livejournal.com]

Therse scens of receding winter along calm watrfronts are very soothing...a nice meditative focus after a frazzling day in front of students...

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

Yes, here is to tomorrow.

Cheers.

Tonight: tired, but feeling fine.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

I've been so much happier the past several years than I ever remember being before. For so long, through my teens and twenties, I just thought life was something that had to be endured until I died. I went for months at a time without relief. My 30s was the time of finding my way out of that darkness. When the feeling comes back, however briefly, it is so fucking scary. And since I don't know what made this morning different from other mornings, it's hard to know what tomorrow holds.

On the other hand, things have been getting progressively better. On bad days, I trust the process. So yeah, I agree with you. I'll try to think of it that way. Thanks, Stephen.

[vaneramos.livejournal.com]

I'm glad to be able to bring you a note of calm, Les.