Monday, January 28, 2008

In Our Bedroom With the Blinds Drawn

We think it rains all night and into the morning.

Right next to our window, the spout from the roof rain gutters bends in a sharp S-curve.

Two joining Ls, right side up, upside down.

Justin went outside the first time it rained here two years ago, to see if he could move the trashcans or whatever horrible drum the rain happened to be falling on one floor below.

There was nothing.

Just the Ls.

We couldn't sleep during the first few rains--it was like napping next to someone playing a snare drum, but we've gotten used to it.

Except for the part where we have no perception of the reality of the rain, with the wind blowing the tops of our neighbors trees and the roof constantly pouring water into the spout we think it poured all night.

Yesterday I woke up and, given the weatherman's predictions and rain forest night, expected to see flood water filling our courtyard.

Sunshine.

In our bedroom, with the blinds drawn, where it rains all the time is like being in my head when I know a depressive episode is drawing the blinds around my life.

With the weather, now that I know there is a good chance the light is actually shining outside, I know if I just get up out of bed and open the blinds or go in another room it won't be raining anymore.

But you know how it's hard to get out of bed sometimes? Sometimes it's just so comfortable and cozy in there, sometimes it's just too much work to get up. On unscheduled lazy days you can even stay, luxuriating in the paralysis of choice. It's safe and nice, so why bother? On over-scheduled frenzied days you know you have to get up, drive in that wet weather, meet with those people, file those papers, push through the workday until lunch and then the drive home with the rain-battered drivers.

One of those commercials for anti-depressants just flashed through my mind. The one with a woman who looks like she hasn't washed or combed her hair in days looking vacantly out the paned window as the rain splashes off it and away from her face. I realize this metaphor is not original.

Down Came the Rain: My Journey Through Postpartum Depression by Brook Shields. "Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down" by Karen Carpenter.

It's just really bizarre to watch my mind not open the blinds, even when I know if it does there will be light out there. It's like I'm in someone else's trap and no matter how much I want to get out I can't just leave. I have to go through a complicated maze of motions, all the while being chased by the fear that I might not escape this time.

I was wrong before, by the way. That kid would have been two years old this year. Those in the know say I am much healthier this year and they're right, but only a few of us know how much work it is to be this way. How much easier it would be never to leave the room.

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