This image popped into my head and I immediately knew the rest of my night was shot.
Ah well, a lil’ christmas present of Doodle Time to myself.
I was thinkin’ about depictions of depression.
I thought about Momma and all the crazy things she did and said. Though I didn’t want to admit it, a part of me missed her. Not the way she was before she died, but the way she was before she got sick.
I had been ashamed of her for so long that any good memories had been distorted and smudged by her illness. I’d forgotten how much fun she was when I was real little, how she’d tell me bedtime stories about fairies who used daisies as umbrellas, how she’d buy me coloring books and sit at the table and help me pick out what crayons I should use.
My chest ached when I remembered how often she had said, “Promise you’ll never leave me.”
I could smell her Shalimar perfume, and I could feel the gentleness of her kiss on my cheek.
And then they came. Tears. Hot and stinging.
Not tears for me, for my shame, or for all the things I feared about the future. They were tears for Momma: the haunting sadness she felt— the years her illness had slashed out of her life— her tragic death.
|—||Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman, pg 239-241|
We exited the room as a tiny, bow-legged woman in a floral housedress shuffled from the doorway across the hall. “Y’all better hurry,” she said with a wide, denture-clicking smile. “Louis Armstrong is here. We’re gonna sing a duet together in the dinin’ room.”
As the woman scuttled down the hall in a pair of green terrycloth slippers, I turned to Oletta. “Wow. Louis Armstrong is here? Can we listen to him sing?”
Oletta leaned close and whispered, “Louis Armstrong ain’t here. He’s only here in poor Miz Pearson’s mind. But the nurses let her believe he’s here ‘cause that’s the only way they can get her to take a bath.”
Through an open window the scratchy sound of a worn-out record began and a moment later Louis Armstrong, accompaniewd by Miz Pearson, began singing “What a Wonderful World.”
When the song ended, Miz Pearson shuffled out to the porch, blowing kisses like a celebrity. “How’d I sound?” she asked.
"Olive, you was great,"Sapphire said. "Ella Fitzgerald ain’t got nothin’ on you."
Miz Pearson beamed, we all clapped, and then a nurse cam and gently led her back inside.
It was such a small thing, letting Miz Pearson sing along to an old record. It caused no harm and made her so happy. I thought about Momma, how she was happiest when she could live in her imaginary world of beauty pageants. And as crazy as that world was, I knew that if my father would have listened to me and taken her to a special hospital, she’d still be alive.
Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, by Beth Hoffman, pg 177-180 (abridged)
I don’t know how I feel about this excerpt, but I thought I’d post it for discussion’s sake.
Almost 20 years ago, writer Andrew Solomon fell into a deep depression. In this talk from TEDxMet, he speaks eloquently and openly about his struggle with “the family secret we all share,” but that no one wants to talk about. If you are a human or know a human, you have to watch this talk, but — be warned — you might just find yourself in tears.
|—||Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, by Beth Hoffman, pg 31|
Some things I’ve learned in the CBT clinics I’ve been going to regarding anxiety that I thought might be helpful to some.
The entire internet needs to see this, please.
Stereotypes vs. reality
My username is VOrangePips. I guess I’m hoping that with my two reasons for tumbling separated, I’ll post more on each. Feel free to follow me over there.
Grey’s just jealous.