Dressed to Depress: The Situation

It was the perfect storm. Dark clouds of an impending depressive episode, a slew of unforeseen and misfortunate events, an unenviable situation that makes being stuck between a rock and a hard place look like a comfortable place to lay, and good old fashioned bad luck have coalesced over my mental health and sank it quicker than an old canoe in a hurricane.

I haven’t been present nearly as much as I have been or want to be because I’ve been languishing for weeks in the most dour of moods I’ve suffered in quite a long time, and if it wasn’t for the intervention of feels that came back to me from an old reliable source giving me just enough motivation to at very least show face and spill my guts, I’d likely still wallow miserably.

I recognize no one will read this because no one really reads blog posts anymore that aren’t keenly intriguing, niche, or uniquely helpful anymore… and I for one am not intriguing, niche, or helpful to anyone. At that, this one might get wordy and will take more than 5 minutes to read, and our collective attention span has shrunk to infinitesimal proportions that boredom sets in at light speed and a simple swipe away can fix that. If, for some reason, you’re still here (assuming you’re not still reading to spite what I just wrote), please don’t take that personally, it’s mostly me projecting. Mostly.

At any rate, who reads or doesn’t read is irrelevant because just slapping the keyboard until it reflects my ridiculously long laundry list of vexations, then posting it online will be enough to tell my inner self “There… It’s out there. People see it. They see you. So get happy quick, dum-dum.”

Regardless if anyone is still reading, Hello… Welcome to the hellscape that is my inner monologue for the last month and a half. I hope you like Alice in Chains, because nothing else has been playing inside my brain for the past couple weeks.

“Like the coldest winter chill
Heaven beside you, Hell within”

–“Heaven beside you”

I have been deep diving back into all of Alice in Chains’ music, and for the last 9 days, the dulcet sounds of gloomy Seattle grunge has not left my ear buds. I’ve done the full discog playthrough, then the box set, then the live shit, then the Spotify curated playlist, then back through the discog again. It’s been a constant, and one can truly say it’s been slowly pulling me out of the mind-mud.

I discovered AiC’s music, deeper than the couple of hits that were played on the radio, in 2005. I bought each of their albums in succession throughout the span of six months. Little did I know, in 2005, I was going through what I would later realize was my very first depression spiral. My collegiate career ended unceremoniously early for a multitude of reasons, both in and beyond my control, I was rudderless and without direction, couldn’t even get a job in my back-asswards hometown. What kept me from a full mental breakdown was immersing myself in Alice’s music. Cover to cover with each album, I felt life from learning their music. I connected with them better than any other band in every aspect… lyrically, musically, thematically, soulfully. They were dark, anguished, and pained … but they also had moments of sunlight through the clouds, levity, and eerie serenity… much like being in the eye of the hurricane. I could relate to everything … except the obvious drug-scorched huskiness that Layne so clearly reveled in, I never really linked with the addiction struggles that were on the surface. However, I more than anything felt the depth of despair that it created.

AiC was a lifeboat. Running their music back again and again feels like the same lifesaver that was tossed my way back then. So to break up the wall of text and to properly portray what about their sound I so connect with in the darkest, lowest points of life, I’ll be inserting certain lyrics that my depressed soul will rubber stamp in confirmation.

“About as low as I can get
I’d leave, but I can’t forget
Still I wonder why…
It ain’t right”

The assault grows from 3 fronts. The Curse, The Storm, and the Situation.

Over here, we have The Situation. It’s the most tangible and obvious of the aggravations. So let’s address that first.

“Fragile things so close together
Taped up broken from before
Part of something, or all of nothing
A very long hard way to fall”

–“Choke”

My wife broke a bone in her foot. That was the precipitating event. I wasn’t going to go too far into it because this post is going to be long enough, but, hey, you’re not reading this far into it anyway, right? On Easter, as we were leaving my uncle’s house, my wife stepped down from the curb onto uneven pavement and rolled her ankle. It looked painful, she said she heard a pop, and she couldn’t put any weight on it. We drove home and went to bed hoping it was just a bad roll or a sprain at worst, and that getting a good night’s sleep would prove to be the trick. It was not. It was just as bad in the morning, so she took off of work. It was bad enough that she came into the emergency room to get an x-ray. They confirmed she had a spiral fraction of her fifth metatarsal. It’s the worst result of a rolled ankle, and it is biiiitch of a recovery to undertake.

So that was the precipitating event. One tiny little bone gets a circular fracture from a bad step. But here’s the fallout of that seemingly tiny little broken bone not even a couple millimeters wide:

-Jess cannot work

-Jess cannot walk

-Jess cannot put any weight on it whatsoever

Because of her fiercely independent nature and “mama bear” maternal style, Jess tried to defy all three of these limitations. But the reality set in when the podiatrist told her if the bone couldn’t set then she would need surgery.

“I feel so alone
Gonna end up a big ol’ pile of them bones”

–“Them Bones”

Here’s the situation, the very nature of what is vexing me to my core:

#1 – Jess can’t feasibly get around and take care of what needs to be done in the household, and mind two kids, the oldest school age and physically closer to being self-seficient but without the experience or know-how to be an asset in that regard, and the youngest not even a year old but on the verge of being erratically mobile. — No problem! I can absorb the rest of the household chores and errands that I don’t already take care of; I’m the primary house cleaner already, but I’ll take on the extra load and do 100%, no problem. I’ll go the extra mile and take on more parental responsibilities that she would need help doing being immobilized. I was already well ingratiated into my kids’ lives, caregiving, and upbringing, so stacking a little more on top of it would be no problem at all. Marriage can’t always be a 50-50 split, and I will gladly move up to 100% of the load given her condition.

#2 – Jess cannot work. Since the bone is a spiral fracture, the healing process is much more precarious than a simple hairline. Any jostling of the foot will hinder any healing that may occur. Jess works at a school in a classroom with kids of special needs, and at least two of them love to make a break for it. It’s not a job that can be done sitting down. And any chance of trying to make any adaptation so she can clock in and make a difference in the school was denied by both the podiatrist and the school administration, both effectively saying there’s a better than decent chance she could make things worse. So she’s not working, and she’s out of PTO. — No problem! I can pick up double-shifts at the kitchen when they’re available, I can scoop up a weekend shift here and there, and I can hustle Uber as much as I want after work. Sure, it sucks working 16 hour days, but it can be done. Marriage can’t always be a 50-50 split even with money, and I will gladly move up to contributing 100% of the finances given her condition.

Both points have visible solutions, individually. Both points together… is another story. If I step up and take the lead at home, the kids are taken care of, the house will be cleaned, errands taken care of, and my wife can get the rest and healing she needs… but the wolves will come howling for their money within a matter of weeks and we will be in a critical financial dilemma in no time. If I bulk up on work, pencil in every available slot and take up a 70+ hour work week, the bank account doesn’t look as sickly, there will be food in my kid’s stomachs, a roof over their heads, and the lights kept on… but I’d have to all but abandon my homelife and leave my wife to somehow manage trying to run the show with a broken foot, or trusting her not to make it worse to the point of surgery (which would REALLY sideline her).

So far, I’ve tried so hard to do both, but it’s just impossible to give a true 100% to either one. I’m trying so damn hard and burning my candle at both ends. But this system is not sustainable for very long, both in a financial and home sense. My efforts have stymied the wolves and gave support to my wife and kids, but something is going to give in the next couple of weeks.

“It’s okay
Had a bad day
Hands are bruised
From breaking rocks all day”

–“No Excuses”

I worry about what this is doing to Jess. She is a wonderful person who has the biggest heart I know. She is generous to a fault, especially to the detriment of herself. She works in a school helping to shape and mold the behaviors of children who have social disabilities, and often is the only one with the patience and care necessary to work with them effectively. And the progress shows as after the end of every year the parents are grateful and the kids have made marked improvements. But it does come with a physical aspect of the job which admin decided she could not perform in her condition… which is true, to be fair. But them not making accommodations for her really put her in a funk. Now she’s at home trying to take care of a baby and an pre-tween with a broken foot. She has diagnosed anxiety, and being stuck in the house without being able to offer what she normally could, and her struggle to accept her limitations even within the house, is really doing a number on her psyche. It’s hard to watch her spirits drop. I’ve arranged the living room and bedroom to where everything is more accessible, we got a shower chair and a knee scooter, and we go for drives to get fresh air as much as possible. My mom comes over during the week from morning to afternoon to assist in how she can, mostly taking care of Little A. But Jess won’t be fully relieved of her anxiousness until she can return to 100%, and until then, my heart aches for her.

I worry about how this is going to affect my kids. Little A is almost one, and he has certainly noticed and enjoyed the amount of time Mama has spent with him at home. And Little Z has stepped up to become a little helper with what he could, although that pre-teen attitude is starting to form at the most inopportune time. But I’m wracked with guilt over having to levy that responsibility on him. When my mom has to leave in the afternoon, and I have to work a double or hustle Uber for the night, Jess is left alone. I’m not seeing my kids nearly as much as I want to. They understand the situation, and are making the best of it. I’m filling the little gaps of time with as much attention as I can… But all of my time is filled with working the day job and the side hustle, and the time I do spend at home is spent trying to keep it together, cleaning, laundry, cooking, and prepping. There is hardly a moment of quality time to spend with either of them. Z and I were in the middle of a Super Smash Brothers tournament that hasn’t progressed much since this happened. Jess sends me videos of Little A saying “dada” in a manner where it sounds like he’s looking for me, and it rips my heart in half every time. There’s understanding now, and both Z and A show their happiness now… But how’s this lack of paternal attention going to affect them 20 years from now. I’m trying so damn hard, and I hate that this may be a hole that bores through our relationship down the line.

I worry about the walls closing in. I’m loathe to discuss money because money makes people weird, so I’ll make this quick. We were in a weird predicament already where, between Jess and me, we were making more money than we’ve ever made before, and simultaneously struggling worse than we were 10 years ago. You can say a lot about inflation, the economy, corporate greed, and you’d be right… but you can only piss and moan about it for so long before you realize complaining doesn’t change anything. We were already living paycheck to paycheck before all this happened, but at least there was enough, even with a little left over to put away for a rainy day. We got a return on our taxes for the first time in years (thanks, Little A!) and used it to finally get back to Square-One for the first time in a long time. We were finally on even footing; bills paid, debts repaid, personal loans squared away. We don’t live outside of our means, no frivolous spending, an occasional trip to a restaurant or take out, no avocado toast or other pseudo-lavishness. We were on even footing not even for two weeks before this happened, and now it looks like we’re heading straight back into the pit. In a couple weeks, the wolves will come howling. And while I’m offsetting what I can with extra work, I can’t completely replicate her paycheck to its fullest. That little rainy day account is already drained, certain bills are ready to be delayed as long as they can. Dire straits is only a month away unless we can figure something out.

And while it’s certainly down on the priority list, I’m a creative soul at heart. And with all this time being picked clean, there’s nothing left on the bone to work on my creative projects. I had a music project I was preparing to roll out that had to be tabled. I haven’t written anything of substance in weeks. Hell, I’m writing this one post over several days in 15 minute increments on my lunch break at the hospital. They say productive creativity requires motivation, inspiration, and time, but you can only pick two at a time. And the motivation and inspiration are there, but the time is gone, leaving me creatively constipated. I’d set my mind at ease by just pressing the button to shut it down and get it out of my mind. But starting it back up takes so much energy and psyching myself up that I’m afraid one day I’m going to shut it down and the creative drive will never start back up.

“You were always so far away
I know that pain
And I won’t run away
Like I used to do”

–“Brother”

It’s amazing and slightly terrifying how one literal misstep–one tiny little toe bone going pop–can put so much into upheaval. Mid-May is the target for her healing enough to get a walking boot and hopefully put some of this unpleasant situation on the right track. But two assumptions must persist: that she’s healed enough to get a walking cast and not shuttled into surgery outright, and that—as a teacher who elected year-round paychecks—her summer pay schedule is going to kick in by June, which no one is giving us a straight answer about. There’s a worst case scenario where this drags into the summer months. We could be in for a very long, ugly summer.

Update since writing this last week: Worst case scenario confirmed, the Situation extends deep into the summer. Fuck my life.