Is it over yet?

Is it over yet?  Can I open my eyes?

So swells the song by Kelly Clarkson, “Cry”. 

Is it over yet? 

Can I open my eyes? 

Is this as hard as it gets?

Is this what it feels like to really cry? 

A few years ago, I attended the State Wrestling Tournament.  The championship matches are intense, as they have come so far, and they are not going to give up now.  Some are seniors, their last chance at achieving greatness.  Some have had an undeafeated season, and don’t want their last and most important match to be the first that they lose.  The emotion is compelling, and it’s almost as entertaining to watch what happens off of the mat as it is to watch what happens on the mat.

Upsets are usually accompanied by jumps, flips, and sometimes even whooping.  Coaches slap one another on the back and wrestlers jump into their arms.   It’s enough to make your heart swell.  But remember, there are two competitors.  The losers show equal amounts of grief, anguish, and despair.  There are a few that behave like gentlemen and congratulate their opponent heartily, but not that many.  A few are downright angry and behave like children, hardly shaking hands with each other or the coaches.  Then, there is Starfish Man.

Starfish man was a tiny little guy, probably about a 125 pounder.  He finished his match, and with tears streaming down his face, he shook hands and walked off the mat with dignity.  And then he crumbled.  I mean, literally fell into a heap on the tarmac, just off of the mat.  He lay prostrate on the ground, pulling at the hair on both sides of his head.  His coaches bent to speak to him, but he didn’t move.   They patted him on the back, but he didn’t move.  They looked at one another and tried to lift him up, but he was dead weight.  They shrugged and just stood there by him until he composed himself and stood up.   It took quite some time for him to come to this point. 

I can identify with that.  In my depressed state of mind, I’ve always felt like I wanted to be a starfish, laying on a rock somewhere.  The water can wash over you, but it can’t move you.  You become one with your surroundings, so much so that you become…invisible.     I could just BE and let everything wash over and past me and I don’t even have to react to it.

I imagine that Starfish man felt the same way.  He was in a crowded stadium with no less than 20,000 people in it, but in that moment, he was all alone.  Face down, eyes squeezed shut, he  could imagine that no one could see him, no one could touch him.  He could let the hurt and anger and frustration just wash over him.

Being depressed becomes such a  great deal of work.  You fight to keep your head above water, you fight to maintain your dignity, you fight to keep the demons from closing in on you.  Your enemy is your own mind, and you cannot escape it.  I’ve envied starfish for so long.

Is it over yet?

Can I open my eyes?

Is this as hard as it gets?

Is this what it feels like to really cry?

The first time that I heard this song, I stopped dead in my tracks.  That’s exactly how I feel when I think that I can’t go on anymore!  When I’ve been battered by the waves for so long, and there’s no end in sight.  If I knew that daylight were just around the corner…if I knew that this was the worst of it…then I might be able to bear the unbearable.    

This past couple of days have been rough in our household.    We’ve had some standard family drama, with a bit of door slamming, raised voices, and emotional outbursts.  We’ve not had a great deal of this with the boys growing up, thankfully, but now that they are nearly grown, we’ve added girls to the mix.  Enough said?

Things were said that I’m sure that we don’t mean, not really.   In the heat of the moment, it is blurted out and then there’s no taking it back.  You can apologize, but the damage is done.  That kind of hurt takes a while to wash away.  The really difficult part is that in loving my children, in wanting the best for them, I fail.  It is the desire to make their lives perfect that exacerbates the situation and frustrates me.  Their inability to understand these actions and more importantly, their motives, often puts me in an adversarial position. 

One of my children has turned his back on me, and my heart is broken.  It might be for a day, for a week, or for years, I have no way of knowing.  Is it over yet?  Can I open my eyes?

I feel like I’m waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.  The fear creeps in.  The doubt.  The self-evaluation.  I should have, I could have.  I haven’t done enough.  I’ve done too much.   I begin to see so many other things that I have failed at.  My failure as a child to my parents.  My failure as a mother.  My failure as a wife, as a disciple of Christ, as a worker, as a friend, as a sister, a cousin, a .  They are all so connected, and when one thing falls, it brings the whole lot with it. 

I’ll give myself a few days to feel sorry, to worry, to feel helpless.  I might even lay down on the floor and pull my own hair.  Is this as hard as it gets?

And then…it will be time to get up off of the mat and leave the stadium.  You can’t be a starfish forever, and you can’t let the depression and cognitive dysfunction sweep you away.  What’s left?  Where do you go from there? 

I’m not sure yet.  I have no idea what the future holds for me and my child. I guess that is up to him.  It has definitely pointed out that we have some things to work on as a family.   Right now, it feels like everything is my fault, and everyone is placing the blame entirely on my shoulders.  Thanks to a great therapist, I know that is not true, and there are more personalities involved that need to share in the responsibility.  I know where I need to get to, I just don’t know how to get there. 

I have to let go with my little suckers, leave the rock, and just keep swimming.