Thursday, I had the squidge. He wasn’t feeling well — his first cold? teething? who knows — so he’d slept terribly the night before and was in desperate need of a nap. But five minutes after I put him down, he popped back up, crying. He was so blindingly exhausted he nearly fell asleep sitting up. I caught him as he was toppling over backwards.
I rocked him back to sleep, but then, not wanting to move for fear of waking him, and assuming he wouldn’t sleep for very long (he flopped about like a fish), I stayed put.
I read a little, and scrolled instagram. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Mostly, I stared into space, or down at his sleep-drenched baby face tilted upwards — his translucent eyelids, his plump rosy cheeks — his intoxicating milk-sweet breath wafting over my face. (If he was indeed sick, I’m in for it.)
Lunchtime came and went. Coffee hour came and went. My back ached. My butt hurt. How long until I’d get bed sores?
I WAS SO HUNGRY.
For three and a half hours, I sat, amazed at my newfound tolerance for doing absolutely nothing. And yet, it was everything.
I’ve been savoring that sweetness ever since.
***
Monday morning at the bakery, scrolling through the newest Fresh Air interviews, I came across one with a mother whose teenage sons — both of them — committed suicide. I immediately zipped on past. No way was I going to listen to that one.
But after working through a couple other interviews, I decided to put on my big girl panties.
The interview was mesmerizing. I did not feel sad or weepy at all, and when it was over, I was surprised to note that I actually felt happy. All my anticipatory anguish and tension had been swapped out for new ideas and — weirdly enough — good vibes. I actually felt free.
Later, I mentioned the interview to a girlfriend. She, too, had seen and passed over it, but after our conversation, she listened to the whole thing and then texted, “You’re right. It was uplifting.”
If you listen, I’d love to know how you find it.
***
My husband and I burned through the most recent season of The Diplomat.
It was the best season yet, I think. The lead, Keri Russell, reminds me of a feral kitten — tiny and rumbled, and scrappy-fierce, and the season ended on such a cliffhanger.
There better be another one, and soon!
***
My sister-in-law sent me a link to this podcast about antidepressants — or about deprescribing them, rather.
It was packed with new-to-me information, including the following:
- Antidepressants are not serotonin elevators, as I thought. (Apparently, that hypothesis was debunked ages ago.) Rather, they suppress feelings across the board, both the bad and the good.
- Antidepressants may have (often have?) side effects that last long after discontinuing them, including fracture risk, weight gain, and sexual disfunction.
- Withdrawal from antidepressants is often so severe that people are unable to discontinue them. (In fact, the struggle to titrate down is often interpreted as a sign that the meds are still necessary, when, in fact, it’s just a sign of withdrawal.)
- According to medical advice, tapering off the meds is supposed to take 3-6 weeks. In reality, it can take years. Some people aren’t able to get off them — ever.
The author is from the UK, where this problem is just now beginning to be understood, and acted upon. The US, he says, is about five years behind.
***
My younger son came home for an orthodontist appointment, so he and I swung by the polling place before he headed back to school.
Get out and vote, y’all! (Find your location HERE.)
This same time, years previous: dulce de leche, currently, a hallowed eve, sweetness, lickety-split pizza crust, smoking, the quotidian (10.31.16), listening, watching, reading, apple farro salad, stuffed peppers, instead of quiche, apples schmapples.