Somehow last night when I was turning off the light in the Glen Den while holding my supper plate and fork and cup, I suppose I tripped over one of the many pillows or some of the many pillows that always get stacked up right there, including one actual buckwheat (I think) sort of pillow-stool that we cannot figure out the origin of. We went to Mexico last year and when we got back, there it was.
Anyway, I tripped and then I suppose with my monkey toes I grabbed onto the rug and somehow I bent my big toe on my right foot back in an unnatural way- please don't try to support your entire body against a tussle with gravity with the strength of one big toe- and I tumbled to the ground and as I laid there I thought, "I hope this isn't too bad," and it wasn't. Not at all.
Just a very sore toe, mostly.
And even sorer hip joints than yesterday which were pretty bad sore already so I'm feeling stupid and pathetic today.
As pathetic and useless and stupid-looking as a swollen big toe which is pretty pathetic and useless and stupid-looking.
It ain't even broke, just...you know. Sore.
So what? It's plenty warm enough to wear my open-toed Crocs so no worries there.
Christmas. I think it's finally caught up with me and no more fucking joking about Walgreens, okay, people? The tittering hysteria about it is gone and Evil Santa has taken over as being far more representative of my mood than Buddha behind the manger.
If you get my drift.
Part of the problem with depression and anxiety is that all the while you are suffering from them you are also beating yourself up for suffering from them, these so-nebulous, seemingly self-inflicted, sorry-ass pity parties and you blame yourself and think, "Just straighten up, go take a walk, go feed the poor, go sing some jolly-holiday-jingles, go drink some herbal tea and take a nice, long, soothing bath in your privileged white-woman claw foot bathtub, you privileged white woman."
I mean. How can anyone who has a giant claw foot bathtub with hot and cold running water, with jewelry and with cast iron skillets in all sizes, with grandchildren and love and books and everything, every thing in the world, dare to be sad, to be anxious, to be absolutely flattened by such nothingness? And how in the world do I manage to feel guilty about feeling guilty?
I don't know.
It just happens.
But. Just as my toe will get better, so will my spirits. Might not happen until long after the toe is its normal self and to be truthful, I don't know what normal is for my spirits, but I keep watching this and weeping a bit for the beauty of it and it helps. It always helps to let out some of the tears for whatever reason.
And I know that for all of my sadness, my feelings of complete inadequacy, I am still able to be grateful, to be thankful, to realize my vast good fortune.
We fall, we get up. We survey the damage, we go on.
We ponder the great mysteries and sometimes we just have to say, "I don't know."
Anyway, let us remember that in the categories of great mysteries, there is always Keith Richards, husband, father, grandfather, the man who wrote the guitar riff for Satisfaction, and the man who was never supposed to live this long.
I am so glad he did.
Perhaps the best "Fuck You" in history.
Happy birthday, old man. Keep on with it.
We shall too.