Careless Depression has a New Antagonist

I am depressed.

Simple words. I keep telling myself it can be simplified. If I could just distract myself. Do something else. Usually I treated a session of depression at this level with some drinking and giggling at life. That is not an option. Dancing? A path that is broken. Writing.  For days I have wanted to writogg about thoughts in my cracked brain. Teaching. Activism. Careers. Dating. Judaism. 

How am I ever going to get into the Jewish dating scene if I have no career, nothing to offer, am still not "Jewish enough" for some folks and haven't done anything Tikkun Olam-ish in a long while?

Brains are not simple. Depression. Also not simple. 

Lost in Translation. I am lost in translation.    

   

I have to re-write a positive outlook in the time frame of a near death/ life changing event. In the space of a New Naomi who is a critter put under an evolutionary pressure that no one expected or can replicate. And everyone is struggling to understand. 

Old Naomi treated depression by burring it. New Naomi wants to think it into submission.

Old Naomi struggled with depression, battled it, perpetually lost, and began to allow herself to retreat when depression came a-calling for a game of emotional fisticuffs. And this was after years of permitting depression to sucker punch Old Naomi into a very sad, lonely, frightened, loveless life. Worked into the corner. I was never surprised at the decision. Retaliation was not an option. Retreat. Retreat. Fall back. Fall back. It was, frankly, the closest thing to safety that I had.

New creature Naomi. She is brave. Far from gutless. And making a mess of the old ways. I simply do not know what to do. When I try distract myself I am drawn back into a fight that I do not want to face. But my new self is angrier. Punchier.

When I do research on depression all the artistic impression and colloquial images are... ugly. And I get it. Depression is ugly. But the person who has depression. Suffers from it. That person is not ugly. That person is beautiful. That person is being manipulated by an ugly thing.

And that person isn't always curled up, defenseless, crying, in black and blue tone, with broken fists wedged into the cavities of terrified eye sockets, spine sagging and shoulder shattered.

We, the depressed, are fucking warriors. Our fights are internal, whatever, but we are still fighters.

And, my darlin', it is a braver thing to do. To deal with this. Fight the enemy that lives inside your skull.

Please don't feed me those handpicked lines, sociologically prepared by parents, friends, strangers and "doctors." The lines do not steady my battlements. Recycled re-enforcements do not apply to the all, do not apply to the every situation.  I'm sorry, darlin', they make it worse. So. Much. Worse. I know you didn't mean to make it as such. But at the time, it makes it feel as if you have joined forces with the enemy.

I need. We need. Something new.

If you want to see us through, cultivate a new line each time. And learn to roll with the punches because that is what we do here.

Or, at least, I think that is what I am learning to do here. Now.

New Naomi is punch drunk.

So it goes.

Inking while Jewish

The day I turned 18 I purchased a tattoo. I'd had the design for two years, drawn by a friend. The moment I saw the image I thought, "I could grow old with this tattoo." After two years I was determined. My tattoo artist, concerned by my selected location and the amount of shading and lining, tried very hard to sway me. He recommended a smaller image, in a different place but I was hell bent on a permanent brocade on my spine. Obviously he relented.

A few years later I came across a poem by Akiko Yosano. "I need to grow old with this poem." I waited for two more years of studying Nihongo. Asked my Sensei to approve the kanji script. In a surprise she informed me that the kanji was old, outdated, not the current way that things are transcribed. The poem was already old. It wanted to grow older with me. Occasionally I would show it to exchange students. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!" Occasionally I was told, "That is an old kanji." Oh, I know. It is supposed to be. 

Since the accident I have wanted to get another tattoo. Perhaps one without a two year wait time. I'm alive, damn it. I should be allowed one inkily brash decision. Time tested an true I'll find something lovely and without foolishness.

I thought of "Never tell me the odds!" placed by my surgery scar.

I then brain stormed, "Live long and prosper." Followed by the breathtaking and difficult idea... I wonder how one says/reads, "Live long and prosper." in Hebrew. Would Leonard Nimoy approve? I feel Spock would find it logical.

Another poem. Perhaps a chai on my heart. An om on my right wrist.

I don't have a tattoo artist in Las Cruces that I can trust with anything so crucial. There is an artist in New Orleans that I know I can trust.

I have never been, nor will I ever be ashamed or regretful about my ink.

People like to charge me with a damning judgment, "You can't get another tattoo. Aren't you Jewish now?" Well, thank you for asking. I have, in fact, always been Jewish. I just wasn't aware until recently. I have always felt that my body is my temple and I will decorate as I see fit. A personal decision that will never change. 

"You can't get buried in a Jewish cemetery if you have tattoos." Thank you for your concern but 1- that is untrue. A myth. I can get buried in a Jewish cemetery. 2- I don't plan on being buried. I plan on being cremated after as many of my parts as needed are donated to those in need. I am then quizzed on whether or not that is allowed. My interpretation of the mitzvah of saving a human life is between me and God. I do not feel he would be disappointed in my decision.

On those two talking points I am free to get more tattoos if I chose. I need to talk to Rex at Idle Hands in Nola when I visit next.

So HOW does one say, "Live long and prosper." in Hebrew?

Call it an Epiphany.

King Cake and Doom frosting recipe

I miss New Orleans.

Sometimes. Not always. Not much. Sometimes.

I do not miss a lack of regard for personal space. New Orleanians can get a little close quarters. Especially in the Quarter. Figures.

I do not miss humidity. Although, I tip my hat to moist heat that helped me drop the weight I'd gained from being on an anti-depressant.

I do not miss the food. But I never liked sea bugs, river bugs or mystery pots of culinary risk taking.

I do miss a proper cafe au lait. Las Cruces cannot make a good half and half cafe au lait. At first I thought it was because I was asking for half and half, instead of milk. But the baristas here hear "L" and think "LATTE." I say half and half and they think breve. 

I miss that I didn't get to start the job I was given. I was going to help look after a pack of Littles. I mean, the title might not have said it- but I was going to be, at least a form of, a teacher.

I miss walking everywhere. Hoping on a street car. Busses that run on the hour, and every 15 minutes after that. 

I miss my deli. I miss Deli Chaos. I miss the Deli Creatures. I miss the phrase, "What do you want?" being casually slung in my direction. And in weeks/months, "Naomi, what do you want?" being casually slung in my direction. 

I miss the beer selection. At the deli, in the bars, at the store, in my fridge. I miss the beer selection.

I miss Touro Synagogue. I miss feeling at home. Feeling welcome. Belonging. I miss singing. Poetry. Understanding a few Hebrew words. Prayer. Crying quietly and not being embarrassed. I miss walking to temple. 

I miss my New Orleans family. 

Cher and Pablo- who are a bundle of jokes, giggles, silliness and never taking anything too seriously. But with that, they both would still hold my hand when I was punched in the gut blue about something. Cher is quietly supportive. Pablo is kinda a dandy about it, "You can hold my hand if you need to... but don't let this get out." Sorry Pabs. I just ruined your reputation. Softy.

Crista for being right about a dangerous situation but not rubbing it in my face when it all went horribly wrong. 

Sammy Sam Sam-a-Lot- who is kinda the bees knees. Even when her knees are knocking and nervous. BEES KNEES. Chock full of good stuff.

Monika is a comadre in arms. Without knowing it, a great helper. For understanding what I want to do, and why I want it. And for making me loud mouth laugh at almost everything.

Jen who, Lit majors unite, gifted me a book of poetry when, truly, the walls about me we trying to buckle. 

The Saltzmans who were just totally awesome and let me baby sit their awesome Little and their awesome animals. 

And the Marxes. Knowing them pretty much makes me all wibbly and teary eyed on a weekly. The Little Bear and the Bear Cub. And the challah gobbling. And... all of it really. It was all really good.

Flapjack, I'm crying. I'm full of tears and King Cake. 

Sometimes I miss New Orleans. 

Call it an Epiphany.