There's a leak in my house. Not a large one, but a persistent one. The previous owners fixed some piping before they sold us the place, but neglected to properly seal the hole through which the pipe comes, leading to a constant drip. My wife thinks it's actually the water main. I don't know what to think, as everyone who has offered advice has either had contradictory advice (including the plumbers we brought in and didn't help at all) or nothing at all. I'm shutting down about the whole thing, which is bad, since we're headed to Europe for a couple weeks and can't really have a bucketful of water filling in our basement twice a day.
Part of what frustrates me about it is how small, yet catastrophic it is. Bit by bit, drip by drip, the bucket fills. It's a painful metaphor for the end of this year.
Since election night, I've been on a steady IV of depression. Every snippet of news, every reminder of the history that is repeating itself before my eyes opens up the valve a little more. Whenever I feel "okay" about things, an orange-faced hatemonger resurfaces and I get a sickness in my stomach.
But I don't want to write an overtly political essay. I'm still so upset about Trump's victory that I spiral in my thoughts and I don't want to word-vomit all over an essay again*.
It is, however, one of the drops in the bucket that's always brimming.
Christmas, for example, was this last week. I tried really hard not to be too cantankerous throughout the months-long holiday (or holimonth as it should be called), and, for the most part, I think I was successful. I tried to enjoy every day of my break so that I could be fully recharged for the heavy lifting that I'm going to be doing during Winterim. I tried to not be bothered by the boys' particular choices, though that hasn't really been consistent. In sum, it has been hard to actually find that balance that drains the bucket without feeling artificial. Christmas Eve, as it almost always is, was dark and glum and hard. I put on the masks I'm best at wearing, found private space whenever I could, and kind of just gritted my teeth through the whole thing--until A Christmas Story. I like watching A Christmas Story. It has such clever writing...
Anyway, all this is to say that my mind is like the wall of my house, and there's a hole there that lets the sadness drip into me, bit by bit.
I don't like it.
----
* More than usual, that is. Also, I tried to piece together some cogent thoughts on the Tabernacle Choir singing at the inauguration, but it devolved into garbage faster than usual. Obviously, politics is to hard for me right now.
Part of what frustrates me about it is how small, yet catastrophic it is. Bit by bit, drip by drip, the bucket fills. It's a painful metaphor for the end of this year.
Since election night, I've been on a steady IV of depression. Every snippet of news, every reminder of the history that is repeating itself before my eyes opens up the valve a little more. Whenever I feel "okay" about things, an orange-faced hatemonger resurfaces and I get a sickness in my stomach.
But I don't want to write an overtly political essay. I'm still so upset about Trump's victory that I spiral in my thoughts and I don't want to word-vomit all over an essay again*.
It is, however, one of the drops in the bucket that's always brimming.
Christmas, for example, was this last week. I tried really hard not to be too cantankerous throughout the months-long holiday (or holimonth as it should be called), and, for the most part, I think I was successful. I tried to enjoy every day of my break so that I could be fully recharged for the heavy lifting that I'm going to be doing during Winterim. I tried to not be bothered by the boys' particular choices, though that hasn't really been consistent. In sum, it has been hard to actually find that balance that drains the bucket without feeling artificial. Christmas Eve, as it almost always is, was dark and glum and hard. I put on the masks I'm best at wearing, found private space whenever I could, and kind of just gritted my teeth through the whole thing--until A Christmas Story. I like watching A Christmas Story. It has such clever writing...
Anyway, all this is to say that my mind is like the wall of my house, and there's a hole there that lets the sadness drip into me, bit by bit.
I don't like it.
----
* More than usual, that is. Also, I tried to piece together some cogent thoughts on the Tabernacle Choir singing at the inauguration, but it devolved into garbage faster than usual. Obviously, politics is to hard for me right now.