My mother asked me at dinner if I was doing okay. I have no idea why I didn't name it and say, "I'm a little depressed." No, I just said, it's taking me a while to get into a routine.
I used to talk to my mother a lot. Then I lived with her for almost five years. We talked while making breakfast, or when both of us woke up too early. When I lived alone, in Pittsburgh, I called her every day on the phone. Now that I live alone again, I don't call her every day.
After church yesterday, I could see the day yawning ahead of me. Eating somewhere, a nap, and a "Jane the Virgin" binge-fest.
So I came up with a plan. A tomato plan. I would take my tomato from her garden and share it.
Making dinner with her and eating with my folks last night was a good choice to quell my demons for a few hours. When she fawned over me sharing the tomato, I didn't tell her about how much food I'd thrown out because I hadn't been cooking and the food all went bad.
Why didn't I name it? Maybe because she asked at dinner and my dad was there. Hearing and not hearing, as the moments go. I hate how he just tunes out because he can't keep track of the conversation. But I'd probably do it too. Hearing loss is worse than blindness.
*****
I called her. I wished her a happy anniversary. She put me on speaker. I almost didn't tell her. But then I did. And she said she thought maybe I was. We talked for a while, and it was good.
Writing helps. I had to edit out some sentences that weren't true, like giving myself some cognitive therapy.
