I didn't die, or get sick. Nor did I win the lottery or run away on a spur of the moment vacation. Unfortunately, I wasn't consumed in writing my novel, either.
I was depressed.
And as is my way, I shut down. Not like you see on television or in the movies where someone gets so depressed they can't get out of bed. I got up and went to work, took care of my kid, kept appointments. But that was it. I did the bare minimum that I had to do. I was surviving, but not really living. This is what I do when depression hits me. And I do that until it passes (which it always does--thank the gods!).
June 25 was the 9th anniversary of my husband's death.
I don't know why the grief overpowered me this year. But it did. Entirely. It was surprising because I thought I had absorbed the grief. That I had internalized it. That being a widow had become such a part of me that the sadness, while always there, had just become a facet of my personality.
Once again, I was wrong.
July is usually a good month for me. My daughter's birthday and mine are in July. Also, the date that my daughter's adoption was finalized is in July. Those are happy dates. But the depression continued.
The only extraneous thing I did was work my garden, particularly the compost pile. Now it may sound odd, but I enjoy composting as much as gardening. Every time I turn my compost, I thank the earth for what it has given me, and offer the return of the nutrients. Of course, part of me says, "Hey, you're playing with garbage", but it doesn't deter me.
If I get a chance, I'll post some pictures of my garden. It's not huge or particularly noteworthy, except that I'm a city girl, and this is my first venture into horticulture.
Something about the plants growing out of the earth, makes me feel insignificant and wondrous. Either that, or I'm spending too much time in the sun.
23 hours ago