I, Deconstructed

In the worst days of the pandemic, Worry was clingy, always whining to be picked up and carried. Ignoring her just made her cry harder. So I dragged her up onto my hip, even when she grew so heavy she hurt my back.

Even when she told me her new name was Depression and started whispering her worst in my ear, on a loop, over and over like she hated me. Like I was terrible and …

I would never … I would always …

Hope said Depression lied, but her lies made sense to me.

Hope irritated the hell out of Depression, the way she bustled around the cabin, flinging open dusty drapes and windows to let in the desert sunlight and air, singing at the top of her lungs all her big plans and dreams.

Hope was always trying to make the point that if you fake a smile, you can trick your brain into happiness.

She said, “That girl on your hip is a liar.”

Depression gave Hope the finger.

“Forget what you hate,” said Hope, ignoring her. “Tell me what you love. You’re a writer – write a list.”

“Oh gross,” I said, “is that what we’re doing, some self-help thing?”

“It’s just a list,” Hope said. “It will give Order an excuse to break out some fresh office supplies. You know she lives for that shit.”

Order fetched a pristine, legal-sized, white notepad and my favorite ballpoint pen, the one with purple ink that flowed just right.

“Okay, okay,” I said.

I put down Depression so I could write:

What do I love?

 I love having written. I hate writing.

 I love questions, not opinions, unless they are mine.

 I love cranky women and men with a sense of humor.

 I love women, period.

 I love people who reinterpret gender, stretching old language to include new definitions.

 I love writers who flirt, fondle, and fuck with language.

 I love New York City pizza and bagels. I think it has something to do with microscopic shrimp in the city water, which is not kosher but delicious.

 I love going off on tangents to give readers a microscopic truth.

 I love dogs, except that one German Shepherd who bit me on the ankle when I was three. 

 I love these energizing rocks, here in Joshua Tree, and the quail families that sound like they’re squabbling, and the jackrabbit who visits my front yard and rises up on legs the size of a spaniel dog’s to help himself to juniper berries. I love the mourning dove coos in the late afternoon and the coyote howls and barks in the dark.

 I love people with stories, who have lived different versions of themselves and carry some regret. I love angry girls with big feelings, incapable of small talk.

 I write stories for them. For us.

 

“Is that everything?” Hope asked.

“No,” I said.

“Good,” said Hope. “Now, where did Depression go?”

“She’s right there, curled up in the corner.”

“I’ll chase her out,” Hope offered.

“Leave her be,” I said.

“She’s getting too big for you to carry around like that,” Hope said.

“I know,” I said. “Leave her be.”

Order traced her fingers across the words scrawled in purple ballpoint across white paper, my list of what I love, some of what I love. A fraction of it. Order felt how hard I’d pressed each word into the page.

She said, “We are going to be okay.”

“Obviously,” said Hope.

Depression started to say something, but I shushed her and picked her up again. This time I hugged her tight against my chest. I felt her heartbeat slow to align with mine. I felt her exhale a long-held breath and settle in my arms.

Already, she felt lighter.