Fish on Land

A Broad Like No Other

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. -- William Shakespeare

My aunt Nancy was a wild but business minded broad. She lived in Nevada in the 1950’s and the family folklore whispers that, for a time there, she owned and operated a brothel with her husband Gale. Nancy was the first daughter but the second child born to my maternal grandmother. From the time that I was old enough to stand, I don’t remember a time when she didn’t have a lit cigarette in her hand and a genuine yet mischievous smile on her face. As a child, I adored her. She was loud, could curse like a trucker and had natural boobs that rivaled Dolly Parton. Her laugh could shake the chandelier and along with her lit cigarette, she usually also had a glass with whiskey and ice in it. Each year, she hosted a huge party at her house. She brought in regulation size craps and blackjack tables and hired real dealers to run the tables. I learned to shoot dice at her parties. I also tried vodka for the first time and brought my first boyfriend at the tender age of 15 to one of these parties.

When she was a young girl, Nancy had polio in her right leg. She suffered terribly and my grandmother spent nights placing alternating scalding hot and icy cold compresses on her leg. Nancy survived the polio but her leg remained shrunken forever the size of an 8-year old leg, a reminder of that painful episode in her life. She was teased at school, at a time when girls had to wear dresses, her misshapen leg so obvious to the world. As an adult, she never wore skirts or dresses and in many ways, she remained a frightened and hurt little girl, encased in a tough and tumble woman. She lived hard and, I think, never felt entirely loved by my grandmother, who left Nancy, my uncle Ted and their father in Ohio to run off to California and follow another man that she had fallen in love with. I miss her sometimes and think of her often, she was a role model for me in many ways. She apologized rarely and when she focused on you, the whole world melted away. She was full of opinions and had her way of doing everything. My appreciation of her, unfortunately, comes too late to express to her in person, but her direct approach to life remains with me to this day. 

Sinking

Talking to Mary, you know you don't have to shout

She can hear what you're thinking like you're saying it right out loud  

--Elliott Smith, lyrics from Talking to Mary

Instead of focusing on a lovely Thanksgiving dinner that we had at home, instead of admiring the Christmas tree that we bought and decorated the day after Thanksgiving, instead of congratulating myself for starting to clear out the garage this weekend, I chose to sink. Wrapped in half bedclothes, half street clothes, and finally just carrying a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, a portable bed if you will, from bed to couch and back again. I could barely keep my eyes open and just decided to let myself drift into the boozy slumber of a depressive episode. Waking each time reminded me how utterly perfect my sleep had been and caused me to crave it even more. Asleep, I can’t be prickly with my husband or grouchy with the dog. Asleep, I hurt no one. My sweaty cheek with hair plastered to it pressed hard into the pillow. Sweet relief.

I am quite sure that depression runs in my family. I believe that my mom suffers from intense depression, suffered many years before my brother was murdered. His death gave her depression a valid and physical shape. As a child, I remember playing in the living room while she slept in the bedroom in the middle of the day because she had a headache, every day. I often trip over trying to determine if I “learned” to be depressed and that’s why I sink or if I just inherited the faulty strand that carried the cocktail. I’m better today and will probably get better as the week takes its slow turn around the bend. This is a tough time of year for so many people. I never think of myself as one of the people who has it tough. Even in sinking grief, I found compassion and salty tears for others. I don’t like to focus on what’s wrong. In my depression this weekend, I started to fear losing my husband. During a glassy eyed TV spell, I acknowledged simply that he will die before me and that when he does, I will not continue. It was a clear sentence in my head. I will not continue. It’s hard to think with that kind of clarity now, awake and functioning.