Male Best Friends

I am not a boy.  I do not understand the male (and I paint all  males with the same brush for the purpose of this blog) fascination with cars/trucks, things mechanical, hunting, naked boobs, penises and of course farting. I do however have an 8 year old son so I am learning to appreciate a fine fart.

As I write this T and his best friend are in my bathroom peeing into the toilet side by side.  They have been friends since they were two and one and a half respectively. They have bathed together, slept in the same bed for last six years on sleepovers.  And they really really miss one another when they are apart.

My ex and me have joint custody.  We share one week on and one week off.  My son’s best friend lives next door to me.  Literally next door to me.  And when my son is not here, he pines for  him and vise versa.  Sunday mornings find me receiving texts asking at what time is T coming home. Does he miss K? K is waiting for T…..what time is he coming again.  Within seconds of my son arriving home, he is out the door and into K’s house or K is bursting through my door.

During the school week due to the shifts that I work, the boys do not get to see one another a lot.  Tuesday if K’s mom picks up T from the sitter’s. Wednesday for like half an hour before K goes to hockey. And than comes Friday and Saturday. From four p.m. on Friday until approximately 7 p.m. on Saturday these boys are inseperable. Except for bedtime and if they can wheedle a sleepover out of us, they don’t even have to be apart for the night.

Today K’s mom had a migraine so lucky K got to skip school and stay home. Cool, until I mentioned it to T who decided that it was totally unfair that when I was sick I made him got to school. K has been waiting patiently all day for T. And at 3:25 pm the texts begin.

“K is looking at the clock.”

“15 minutes until the bell rings. Why do all these dickheads have to park like right up my butt?’

“K says ok. I dunno cause they are a**holes?”

“10 minutes to bell rings. They are all dumb bums.”

“Lol that rhymes.”

“5 minutes until bell rings.”

“K says to me: I have been longing for T all day and I bet that T is longing for me.”

Both moms are speechless. Longing at 8 for each other?

As I wait the 15 minutes for T to be released from school I continue to receive texts from K’s mom ( who is my best friend how is that for a great story?) about how K is waiting and patiently watching the clock for us to get home.

Finally the school bell rings and voila my child comes bolting for the car. And after my sitting out there for 15 minutes T wants to walk home. My response was oh hell no, I sat here for 15 minutes get your butt in here and K is waiting for you. Well into the car he scrambled and onward mom let’s go.

We pulled into the complex and as I drove into my parking spot I look over at the neighbor’s and there is K jumping up and down in his window. Waving away so pumped because T is home. T bolts from the car and dances around the parking lot calling “K” like Brando screams Stella in ‘A Streetcar named Desire’.

They are the best of friends. They do the weirdest stuff together. They tell one another secrets and their dreams and all the things that they would never tell their moms. They look like brothers. Come June, they are going to be living in different cities, approximately 45 minutes apart depending on driving conditions.

I never had a best friend when I was 8. They say that any friendship that last longer that 7 years is destined to last forever. I look at these two brothers who were born of different mothers and I know that I will be dancing at K’s wedding just as M will be dancing at T’s. They will always be there for one another. They will always have one another’s backs. I am sure that if T has issues K will come running to his rescue and I know damn well that T will run to his. I am a little envious that I do not have a childhood best friend, a friend who knows all my secrets, all the inside jokes. But I am so happy that K and T have found one another and will be best friends for life. What I am not looking forward to is the next 10 years of fart and poop jokes. And dear lord, can  I just skip the teen years?

Silence

Silence spins out like a golden thread, spider like silk
distance no longer about space but emotion
Fears and desire combined to hold your hopes together
and you watch, and you wait to see if it will crumble.

Living at the seaside in a house made of sand, a moat
keeping the tide from attacking at the banks, eaten away
Water creeps closer and closer and still you wait
hoping that dreams can still come true?

A top the tower, watching the beast ravage the man
a forest of wickedness and lies, black truths
To protect and keep your faith nigh
what the hell is going on?

Waking every morning, a scream upon your face
smitten with the devil who tortures you all night
How did you get here and do you really care?
so long as the peace has been written.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

July 23/14

The Beast Within

The confidence that people see in me, it is fake. The charming smile and happy chatter, I make it all up as I go along. I have learned how to hide the side of me that makes people uncomfortable, the side the requires a little more maintainence than the fake side because no one really wants to know.

My last major depressive episode was almost three years ago now and it was a doozy.  I woke up one Saturday morning and I despised myself.  There was no reason for this but the depth of hatred I felt is incomprehensible today. I began to cry and I could not stop. I was suppose to work that evening and as I sat on the toilet hating myself, tears coursing down my face I could not see the end to the tunnel.

Over a three day period of seeing my doctor and facing some wicked accusations at work and at home, I was done.  I had sunk so deep into the morass I did not even know at that time if I could climb out of the pit that I found myself in. I was put on medical leave from work. I was put on medication and a counselor was found for me. For the first three weeks I was home all I did was sleep, twenty-three of twenty-four hours I was curled up in my bed, ignoring my son, my now ex-husband, my friends, my life. When I was awake I sat in front of the t.v. or the computer, because it was mindless and I did not have to think.

Slowly as the medication began to work and my serotonin levels evened out, I began to crawl towards the light. I thought that maybe I might live through this. That I might actually be alright.  And it was a long journey. It was a slow journey.  I had to confess to my mom my addiction to codeine that I had the year my father died and how I almost killed myself. Not intentionally but I came close. My rotti Nero saved my life that day.

I had to face up to a lot of hard truths about myself. I had to rediscover myself and the parts of me that I had buried for so long. Because that is a part of what depression is. For myself at least. I lose myself in how others perceive me and I am not true. I do not express my anger or sadness but tamp it down so no one really knows what is going on. And truth be told I am not really a good sharer of my feelings.  I talk a lot but for the most part I keep others talking so I do not have to.

I live with this savage beast daily. When I have down days, I wonder is this the start of another episode? When I have super good days  in a row, not just one, but several, I wonder if I am going into a manic episode? Do others view me as unstable? I know that I bounce around a lot and can be hyper but  I never know really if it is the illness or my natural state of being.

I no longer fear the stigma of depression and anxiety. I no longer worry that the beast within is going to destroy me. I have not conquered him but he no longer has his claws dug into my soul, squeezing the colors from my life. We seem to have come to an uneasy agreement. On occasion I will allow him a brief moment of freedom, but than I reseal him tightly into the vault that I have built. On the days that I allow him out, I take a mental health day and curl up on my bed and cry myself to sleep. Those are the days that I really wish to have someone, anyone hold me and just say ‘You will get through this. You have the strength.’ However as I do not share these days it is unlikely to happen.

The beast within. It has the power to drag me under and keep me there but I refuse to bow down to his desires.

 

Cause they are 8

My bff’s daughter is a vegetarian. And there is nothing wrong with that. My sister in law and niece and nephews do not eat meat. My brother he is a meat eater. My bff, she too is a meat eater.

However  her daughter is out for the weekend and she is a vegetarian and they are having vegetarian lasagna. Yuck. This is the thought in my head. Bff’s son, who is my son’s bff in turn announces that he hates vegetarian lasagna. He was informed in no uncertain terms that he must at least try the lasagna.

My son suddenly pipes up and asks that his bff can still come for supper. We are having bacon eggs and hash browns. And of course the response was yes, yes you guys can have supper together.

Bff’s son: Because I love bacon!

I laughed. I admit it. Because really who asks an 8 year old to make a choice between bacon and vegetarian lasagna. Dude will always choose the bacon.

 

The Narcissism of Youth

Wow. Just total wow.

I am speaking to my son tonight, pumped because I have like my 5th follower on my blog. I am thrilled beyond belief that 5 people like the way that I write. (The fact that at least two of them are friends does not kill my buzz at all!)

Son: “Mom what is a follower?”

Me: “Someone who likes my writing and is reading what I wrote.”

Son: “So basically they like me. ‘Cause  like all you write about is me; so they just like me.”

Me: “Ummmmm no I do not solely write about you. I write about other things too.”

Son: “Moooooom, what is more important than me?”

Me: (In head) Fuck Fuck Shit yeah. So despite the fact that I do write about other things, my narcissistic son believes that my entire life revolves around him. (And he is not wrong)

Beauty and The Beast

It is hard.  How do you explain to someone who’s serotonin levels don’t fluctuate. Who never have had the sense of impending doom? Who wakes in the morning and goes through their day without once wondering if they have fucked up so badly they will be without work in the morning? You cannot.  Because for someone who does not live with depression, your words may paint pictures but it cannot convey feelings.

Depression is an angry beast, insidious in how it creeps in and affects every aspect of your life.  No one wants me, no one cares, no one can understand how I feel. The abyss beneath your feet, it is real, all consuming and you spend hours tightrope walking to ensure your sanity. But you cannot explain. You cannot show.

And it feeds your bliss too. My creativity surges when I am in a depressive state. I can write poetry that makes your soul bleed, I can write prose and entice those who do not read, to devour my stories. And want more. So I crave the blackness, I crave the sleepless nights and boomerang days. I live in my head, during work hours, during down time, coming out of my fugue to care for my son. I live in a world of fantasies. And it feels good.

Not only do I live with depression, but so does my bff and her daughter.  My bff is on medication and lives a calm serene (LOL sometimes) life. She is willing to give up creativity for stability. Her daughter and myself, we are artists. Not that my bff isn’t but We Are Artists. We need to create. Via the written word, paint, media. We have words to speak and a need for the world to hear. However, our creativity is closely tied to our depression. (I have a feeling my bff’s daughter is going to disagree with me and this is because all my beliefs are based on her mom’s perception of her rather than my own as I have not spent any time with her) but anger and passion fueled by depression is addictive.

The beast is depression. The beauty is the brilliance that spills from my mind and fingers, from the paint brush on the canvass, the ability to convey my thoughts and worries. I know this is disjointed. It may not make sense but to me there is beauty in the truths I have found tonight.