headwind

Last Wednesday I slept a little longer than I'd meant.  Upon waking and realizing the time, I looked out the window and understood why:  the light was all the wrong color.  Instead of the pale, cool gray of an East Bay morning, the light was dark and slaty, filtered through some fairly dense rain clouds.  I had planned to bike out to the water that morning, and it looked like I could probably still manage it if I didn't dawdle.  I ate, dressed, pulled the bike down from the hooks, and rode hard toward the bay.  The first mile or so was business as usual, but by the time I hit the trail along the creek I'd found myself a sturdy little headwind.  The toddler wind matured fairly rapidly, and was soon as pleasant as a hormonal teenager.  As my legs got more and more tired I thought, "Well, at least when I turn I'll have a tail wind!"  I hit the bay, took a minute to snap a photograph, wolf down my 100 calorie re-fuel, and jump back on the bike. And, man, I tell you what.  I flew!  The wind pushing at my back threw my ponytail forward, and practically shoved me back up the mild incline from the water to the hills.

And then the wind changed.

It flicked around to my right, nearly knocking me off the trail.  I ducked a little lower, my shoulders and arms tightening with the strain against the gusting wind. Then, true to the pattern of youth, the wind changed again, this time to blow rain straight into my face.  Knowing I only had eight more miles to go, I dropped gears, ducked even lower, and muttered to the wind and rain, "Ya?  Bring it."

I arrived home fairly wet, and very tired.  My mile times totally stunk.  Still, there was a sense of pride in having beaten the weather, and the pleasant memory of my mile of flight.

Later that evening I mentioned the experience to a friend who remarked, "Kind of a metaphor for life, right?"


I talked about depression remission recently.  Maybe the term "remission" was a little premature.  The last week or so has been pretty lumpy.  And by "pretty lumpy" I mean really, really stupid and hard.  The Naysayers in my head had called a committee meeting, held a few rallies, and marched a garish parade down Main Street.

Sunday was especially bad.  I felt prompted to ask my home teachers for a blessing.  No small thing there.  I've only been in this ward for about fifteen minutes, and I don't know my new home teachers very well.  Reciprocally, they don't really know me.  So I get to have the fun conversation that goes something like this:  "Hi.  I'm kinda in the middle of Death Spiral.  I'd like to not be living any more, you know?  Pencils down, test over?  Right.  Oh, but don't freak out.  I'm not going to jump or anything.  I mean, I totally get the Plan of Salvation and all, so I know even after I die, I go with me.  And that's kind of the problem.  So, ya.  Help.  Thanks."

Generally, once I've opened this particular bag of dead cats, people kinda freak out.  Not that I blame them.  I mean, a bag of dead cats is kinda freaky.  And hard to explain.  So I opened the bag.  And waited to see what happened.  Home Teacher #1 sort of shifted uncomfortably, and offered a textbook suggestion-- something like, "Have you tried counseling?"  Have I tried counseling?  Um.  Ya.  It's come up.  (One of the fun things about being the victim of domestic violence in the state of Nevada is that counseling is required.  Underage victims aren't even aloud to opt out.  I know, I tried.  Overall, it's probably a good thing, though at the time it made me want to roll people.  By about twelve years-old I knew the therapy as well as the therapist did.  It kinda lost it's usefulness after that.)  Home teacher #2 sat inscrutable and silent.  The Naysayers set up their band stand, got out their instruments, and were ready to start playing their favorite number (a catchy little tune they call "We Told You You're a Freak And You Shouldn't Have Tried") but before their sheet music was entirely in order Home Teacher #2 said something I don't even remember, but the gist of which was, "I'm sorry."  Not the kind of sorry like he'd done anything wrong, but the kind of sorry that conveys understanding.  The Naysayers, shocked into silence, put down their instruments.  I stared at a discoloration in the carpeting.

Home Teacher #2 eventually asked, "What is it that you're hoping to get from the blessing?"  Oh, that word!  Such a sharp, painful word:  hope.  What would it be to "rise up and walk"?  To, once and for all, cast The Naysayers out of my head?  To fully absorb the kindness given me by others, to really feel loved?  To hope for such things?... Nope.  Not strong enough for that today.  But there have been other days when I have been strong enough to bear the burden of hope.  The kind of days wherein I could ride into the rain and wind and say, "Ya?  Bring it."

Home Teacher #2 voiced a blessing wherein I was reminded of things I already knew, and learned some new things that will yet require thought.  As significant as the words voiced was the feeling of compassion which accompanied those words.  I know God likes me.  But I don't always feel it.  (You know, like February.  You can see the sun, but you can't always feel it.)  After the blessing Home Teacher #1 said, "We pray for you every night, it's good to know what to pray for now."  Home Teacher #2 crouched down next to the chair I was sitting in, put his hand on my back, and offered more kind words.  They politely, discretely, left the little room we had been sitting in; I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed.  Sometimes kindness is more difficult to bear than cruelty.

I feel no victory, no wind at my back, no turn of tide.  My arms and legs are weak and tired.  My prayers are repeated petitions for courage to persist, and so far those prayers have been honored.