I’ve had them before. I just never tried to put it into words, at least not that I can remember.
I’ve wanted to get back to writing. I like it. It has been very therapeutic in the past, being able to vent or occasionally bitch, or sometimes to “spew rainbows and wave pompoms” as one of my lovely fellow-bloggers has eloquently expressed it.
But OK, so here we go. It feels like all of this: I can do anything, my brain is spewing hopeful ideas and creative crap. But in between the flurried (but useless) fits of genius, I’m aware of the hopelessness and uselessness of …me. I’m inspired and want to encourage the world, and brighten my little corners of it and help people in tiny ways that don’t break the bank too fast, while someone is backing thoughtlessly into my car and their insurance woefully underestimates and happily cuts me a tiny check they say should be enough, I take it to the body shops and they go a thousand dollars over that to take me or any insurance company for a ride to pay for their kid’s college fund (bastards!). I have energy and want to do things around the house – clean, vacuum, wash dishes, do laundry, cook, but I get to sit still through that and talk to customers. I get done with work and my energy and desire to do stuff is gone like the wind. And there’s still the general malaise and hopelessness of my old teeth with their old fillings breaking and crumbling, breaking my glasses again and supergluing the damn things again because although I’m paying hundreds every paycheck for insurance, I can’t afford $6K per implant, times how many are broken now?, not to mention a few hundred for new glasses and a better sighted prescription. Do NOT make me go to the doctor, even if I’m dying of some medical mystery worthy of “House, MD’s” scripted genius. I can’t afford the tests to figure it out. Just let me go. And it’s the happiness I felt when I gave a friend $20 this week so she could have a little joy. Priceless!
That, dear readers… scratch that, I haven’t written anything in months… That, dear reader, is MY experience of a mixed episode: The hope struggles and wiggles and tries to escape, like a toddler who doesn’t want to keep still OR quiet in church. The hopelessness has a headache, and its arms wrapped tightly around the hope, like a controlling parent who can’t let their AD/HD child act out like an idiot in the middle of the sermon. That. Except the hopelessmess is strangling, smothering, and the hope which was desperate to be let out just gave up and wants to cry.
It’s not all bad. I have superglue. I have glasses. My car runs, even if Mrs M and I are bleeding money any time anything major blows up. Shit happens, and we wire it and duct tape it back together, or throw it in the trash, and hope to win the lottery so we can eventually have whatever the fuck “enough” is. And, I had $20 to give a friend, just to lift both of our generally depressed souls up for just a little while. So there’s that.
See? It’s the very definition of “mixed.” It’s a swirling eddy from a tidal wave and a single piece of wood to cling to, the conviction that another wave is coming, knowing that the insurance check to rebuild the tidal-waved house is either just out of reach, or it’s almost, but not quite enough, to do it.