Ramblings and bad days

I self-diagnose ergo I self-medicate. I have different kinds of medicines and/or doses for different body ailments- from mild cough to cough with asthma, feverish to fever accompanied by aches in the joints, rhinitis to full-blown colds complete with watery eyes and pounding headache. If my memory serves me right, I’ve only been admitted to the hospital four times- three of which when I gave birth to my children and that one unforgettable time when I had dengue fever. So basically, I know what works for me. It is the emotional setbacks, especially these occasional bouts with depression that I have a hard time “curing.”

I don’t want to sound ungrateful because I am not. I try to count my blessings every day- a faithful husband, three happy children, three thoughtful siblings, few-but-true friends and I mean wherever I go, countless wonderful memories. But sometimes I allow my demons to overwhelm the better part of me. So that I think about the could-have-beens and the what-ifs and I weep in sorrow and regret and guilt.

I am saddened about my mother and how she has turned from a free-spirited girl with really big dreams to one who is seemingly in chains for most of her life, from a bad marriage to a bad disease. I am haunted about getting married so early and hurting my parents by not even considering a church wedding when it was one of my mother’s not-so-secret wish. I am remorseful every time Aryana fusses and all I think about is walking out. I am afraid to acknowledge the big open windows in our rented unit because I can almost taste the air and feel the rush of excitement and freedom and I don’t want to even think about what I feel. And when there is still space in my battered heart, I go all-out masochist and think about the people that I chose to let go, those I didn’t even give half-a-chance, those I judged and found undeserving of my love and loyalty, and those I completely ignored from the first exchange.

There is no cure outside. That much I’ve figured out. Not the cold stone creamery in Somerset. Or my me-time go-to Kinokuniya bookstore in Takashimaya. Not even the earrings at lee hwa that are twinkling and twinkling back at me.

I have this bad habit of hugging and kissing a sleeping Aryana every time depression attacks me in the middle of the night. And if I succeed in waking her up, I feel guilty yes, but mostly happy. Because then, I have someone to carry and hug tight and fuss about. Or I wake up my husband, which is also another guilt trip because he wakes up at the ungodly hour of 2am to work and I mean almost every day, and here I am, having a nightmare and having no qualms at all of waking him up for a cuddle.

But most days when I feel lonely and sad and almost-panicky, I pray more and deeply. I exchange texts or emails with reliable (read: replies immediately) friends and we laugh about meaningless things and half-meant jokes and funny pictures. 

 

 

And it always works. It’s not that these ward off the depression. It’s more than that actually. Prayers and friends make the depression insignificant so that I become almost like an outsider looking in. And I see myself like this petulant (adj., sulky or bad-tempered) child who sees no one but herself and who sees nothing else but the mostly-imagined misery. I mean c’mon, yes I am jobless, car-less, house-less. But I have what I’ve always dreamed of- a good family life and meaningful friendships. I am where I want to be- in the kitchen, baking cheesecakes and chocolate cakes and pineapple upside down cakes and cooking eggplant mozzarella and tom yum from scratch. I have to be grateful for this beautiful life- and this is my mantra for 2014 and forever.