Fall

The red front door hangs lazily open on this Sunday afternoon.  The sound of crickets and chirping birds fill the sky and a slight breeze ruffles the curtains on the kitchen window.  Ceiling fans circulate clean air around the rooms, a freshness that hasn't been present since early June.  The summer is starting to let the fall creep into its territory, and the air conditioner is thankful for a break.

Fall means good things.  It means apple picking where the best apples get eaten straight from the tree, warm and crisp with a dribble of juice running down your chin and hand.  It means pumpkin farms that have become too commercialized, no more simply picking out the perfect shade of pumpkin-orange on a perfectly round fruit, sipping a pumpkin latte while the kids run back and forth making their selections.  The farms are now filled with overpriced bouncy houses and corn mazes and silos filled with dried corn to dive into.  Fall means going back to school, a new pair of ballet shoes before lessons start again, firming down a routine that balances activities, homework, and family dinners.

But this fall, this fall brings terror.  It brings no school for me, employment that a rabbit couldn't live on, a host of uncertainties about the future, and the cloud of destruction that looms overhead.  It is filled with mornings of dropping the kids off in my mismatched pajamas, throwing on a nice cardigan as that it all that is really visible in the drop-off line.  It's skipping my morning iced-mocha in a rush to get back to my safe haven, my bed, my blanket, and a nap.  It's picking up the kids from school 7 hours later, avoiding chit-chatting with the other stay-at-home moms.  It's wondering how quickly I can get my brood to complete homework so that I can crawl back to my safety zone.

I am thankful for the cooler weather as it is easier to cover the destruction that is appearing on my arms.  Slices and cuts of frustration, of fear, of doubt, and of death.  My mind is a whirlwind of opposites; should I leave my family or commit suicide?  Is there a difference?  Should I attempt to get out of bed today and be productive, knowing the whole time I will be calling myself a failure?  Is it worth it to put the effort in to cleaning house or making dinner solely so that my husband will feel like he has less to worry about when it comes to me?

I pray for night, for the darkness that I can wrap up in like a knit blanket.  I can crawl into my bed and imagine what things could be, how it could happen, what it would be like, without the interruption of my little ones.  It is easier to slip into the master bathroom, withdraw my exacto knife from hiding, and take out the days frustration on my body.  It is easier to pretend that I am sleeping when my husband comes in, effectively cutting off communication.

I don't know that I want to get better, I don't honestly think that I can.  I think that my brain has become permantely dysfunctional and can only process sadness, pain, and disappointment.  Any other emotion that dares to cross the surface is quickly banished in punishment to the corner, scolded and told to leave me alone.  But depression, my greatest friend, is always allowed to lay with me, to get lost in an imaginary world, to keep me company.

Dark

The darkness sets in
Like a heavy comforter
That has been used over and over
And that you come to trust.

It is easier to be in the dark
Then to face things in the light
People, places, conversations
Questions that you don't want to answer.

Then there are the side effects
The tiredness, the next to nothing self-seteem
The desire to die
The elaborate plans that are drawn

I have never followed through, obviously
And wonder how much more
It will take until I fully break
And forget that I am afraid.