Identity Crisis

Got that in the mail this morning and if still remembered how to laugh, I would have.
But damn- isn't that the question?
What to do about Mary Moon?
If I were the sort of crazy that sees conspiracy theories everywhere, I would be trembling.
If I were the sort of crazy that finds religious portents in every day objects, I would be worrying.
Well, I already am worrying and that's my problem. I can't seem to quit.
Oh, I'm not as anxious as I was. At least I don't feel as anxious but I seem to have lost my voice (quite literally- I can barely speak) which makes me, if at all possible, even less socially available than I was before. I'm sort of okay at home but get me out in the world and I can barely speak above a whisper. And frankly, I don't think there's anything physically wrong with me but that this is sort of a somatic response to my anxiety- another way to keep me home, keep me away from the troubling world and its responsibilities.
If so, it sure is working.
One of my daughters is depressed too. And thank goodness we can talk about our mutual depressedness and end up laughing, although I feel guilty that she's depressed and I can't do anything about it and I'm sure she feels guilty that I'm depressed and she can't do anything about it but we both know that fighting these black battles can really only be done alone.
My husband keeps trying to help and just knowing he's there and wants to help IS a help. Yesterday he sent me off to get a truck load of pine bark mulch, thinking it would get me out of the house and into the world to do something and he was right, although he had no idea how much anxiety it produced, driving down the road in a strange truck, finding the place, negotiating for the fill-up (done at a whisper) and driving home with bark chips flying everywhere.
It didn't end up being too bad at all and then I spent several hours spreading the stuff. That's been my latest big project- spreading pine bark mulch. I have a feeling that if I don't draw a line soon, my entire two acres will be covered with pine bark mulch. It's hard to know where to stop and it's an extremely pleasant task. Shoveling it is like shoveling air and I listen to a book on tape while I'm doing it so it's almost like I'm getting away with something and when I'm finished, you can definitely see the results, which is a huge difference in the sort of thing I usually do which is to clean things that get immediately dirty again or cook things that get eaten.
I suppose it is therapy, in a way and it may not be much but it's something I can control which is more than I can do about the world economy or national politics or even my own mood or voice.
I can spread pine bark.
And hey! It smells good.
So. What to do about Mary Moon because she can not spread pine bark mulch forever.
I do not know, but I suspect the answer lies in remembering that (thank you, Miss Maybelle), all things shall pass and that measuring the time in coffee cups as TS Elliot did or measuring it in wheelbarrow loads of pine bark is a way to get from here to there.
And also trying to remember just who Mary Moon is. I have a vague memory of who she used to be. She was a woman who managed to keep it together with four kids in the house. A woman who helped other women have their babies with patience and words and hands. A woman who was occasionally wild enough to dance up to the edge of the precipice, smile wickedly and dance back to safe sanity. A woman who could sit in front of her computer and create a character who had more sass and backbone and courage than I ever will. A woman fired up with piss and vinegar and estrogen and who had a voice and used it.
I used to be that woman.
I think.
I wish I could find her again because I sure as hell miss her.
Maybe she could tell me what to do about Mary Moon. I think she'd know.