Both Hands

While driving to the UPS store this afternoon, I caught a dude waiting in the car outside of a daycare — presumably, I am praying, to pick up his child — like, um, the Rum Tum Tugger, from, uh, Cats? The (former) Broadway musical? There are many weirdly disturbing things happening here, not the least of which is that, you know, my first thought was that OMFG, that dude is the Rum Tug Tugger, and second, WHY? WHY? But also, YOU GUYS. I saw Cats at the Winter Garden theater back in the day, and though I was young (high school?), I … I distinctly recall having a STEAMY REACTION to The Rum Tum Tugger, which was a man … dressed as a cat. And even though I KNOW I wasn’t (am not) alone, it’s still a bit disturbing to me, in retrospect.

I’ve never felt so close to having a plushie fetish than right there on Rte 20. Except, through Googling just now, I learned that it’s more of a furry thing, and let’s just say that there are things one cannot un-see.

Separately, I’m not much of a grudge-holder, but there are a few incidents that happened YEARS ago that still make me angry when I think about them. Does this ever happen to you? Like, you’re OVER IT, but once in a while, you think about it, and you just get BOILY WITH RAGE?

I dated an identical twin in college, and his brother ALSO went to college with us, and to make things MORE confusing, this girl in my sorority dated the OTHER twin, i.e., the one who was not my boyfriend. They broke up rather horribly, if I recall, and though it would be a few years before my twin and I would come to the same fate, at the time, we were happy, and this set this girl off into a bit of a crazy rage against me. Urgh, college. Not the most mature of times, right? ANYWAY, this girl was the bullying type to BEGIN WITH, but then, after the breakup, amped up her meanness to eleven and directed most of it straight in my direction.

And you guys. She was mean to me, all the time. ALL THE TIME. She confronted me in public, accusing me of leaking information about who she was and wasn’t dating to my boyfriend, who would then tell his brother (I didn’t, because surprisingly, WE DID NOT DISCUSS HER), and on one memorable occasion, she sat in a room with a bunch of people and took subtle pot-shots at me that she thought were going over my head, but in fact, were smacking me clear in the face. Stuff like that, over and over again. FOR MONTHS.

And I, being on super-shaky ground coming off of depression (more on that in a minute), was too chicken to confront her or even call her out on her behavior, because I was SURE that everyone would side with her, and honestly, I was probably right. I’ve never been that good at that kind of warfare.

She graduated a year before me, and my senior year, called me to get her twin’s contact information (my twin and I were still dating). Even though the risk of her doing my personal life any damage had long passed (she was gone, I wasn’t even IN my sorority anymore, having realized it was a bit, um, toxic, particularly for someone in my situation), I STILL DIDN’T TELL HER TO STUFF IT IN HER ASS. I HAD NOTHING TO LOSE, AND STILL. I should have said no, lady, you were cruel to me for MONTHS. GOOD DAY, SIR.

So I carry that around. I’m not even mad at her anymore, I’m RETROACTIVELY PISSED AT MYSELF for not telling her to fuck OFF. But I’m afraid — like, legitimately — that if I ever run into her again, I will punch her in the face just to even the score with … myself.

I don’t know why I started thinking about this, except that I read this post by Melissa Summers, and I tell you, I am not particularly into the general concept of people’s depression confessionals as being “brave.” I think it’s … overused. Simply confessing that we’re battling with depression is NOT an act of bravery, particularly when so many people think that they can just declare it, and by its simple declaration, have it begin to fix itself.

However, I think that Melissa’s post WAS brave. Very brave, for so many reasons, but what struck me (out of, you know, SO MANY THINGS) is that she talks about what lot of people who have been depressed or anxious or struggling with any kind of mental disease or glitch don’t often do: Depression can turn you into a person who can seem to others like a real asshole, and not in the “oh, she’s just so SAD all the time!” kind of way. Admitting this is so freakin’ hard, because you don’t come off looking particularly rosy, you know?

Depression often looks like someone who is acting like a jerk, and it takes its toll on relationships. You can push people away. Lie to them, even. Treat them poorly. Pick fights. Fight dirty. End relationships. Focus so deeply on yourself and your own issues that you are patently unable to do anything for other people, even the simplest of courtesies (like being honest with them, say). Owning up to, and taking responsibility for, something like THAT? Well, that is brave, because for some people, depression is damn ugly, and you come off looking like a real ass because, well, YOU WERE ONE, no matter the reason. And almost no one on the outside recognizes it, so you have to do a lot of clean-up at a time when you feel least equipped to do so.

(I’m talking about myself here, obviously, but I think Melissa addresses herself perfectly in a way that resonated with me.)

(Note: I am attempting to compliment Melissa on the way she seems to be handling it, but instead, fear that I am calling her an asshole. Which is not my intention, obvs. THE OPPOSITE.)

You know. Errrgh, this shit is so hard.

(This was years ago for me — college, in fact, as I mentioned, but that post brought it all back in kind of a good way. OWN YOUR SHIT, is what I’m saying, even the ugly stuff. Yet, also be kind to yourself. Clearly. GOD IT IS ALL SO CONFLICTING AND CONFUSING.)

(However, that girl was still a total and complete bitch, and I AM AFRAID I WILL PUNCH HER IN THE FACE.)

Um, on a MUCH LIGHTER NOTE, today (Tuesday) is my anniversary. Eight years! Eight! Years! I feel like I blinked and BAM! We’ve been married eight years. I told Adam that statistically, we’re on the good side of the divorce odds, because most couples who divorce all it quits by seven years, and by then, have already known it was coming for a long time. So let’s get complacent! Imma FIND ME A GIGOLO THIS WEEKEND!

No. Being married is the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s work to be polite when you want to be a grump. It’s WORK to think of someone else before you think of yourself, and sometimes that rears its head in the big things, and sometimes it’s about making a different choice for dinner. But man, it’s been worth it. Eight years! Eight years of so many good times, and so many challenges (why, this year alone! OMFG) and yet, we keep on trucking along and having a good time, for the most part. I am happy. So stupidly happy with my life, and a big part of that is because I married him. He’s funny and smart and kind and handsome and a great dad, and an outstanding, thoughtful husband — seriously, he ALWAYS does the right thing, even if not at first, he comes around and we talk about it, and THE MAN PUTS ME TO SHAME, because I am stubborn and difficult.

Above all, and underneath it all, we like each other. I love him — oh, more than anything — but I also really LIKE him. He drives me up a wall, and I know I’ve infuriated him to the brink of insanity, but somehow, we always make it work, and we come back around to having a damn good time together. That’s something, and it’s sure worth the effort, I’ll tell you that.

Happy anniversary, Adam. Eight years! EIGHT! I don’t know why, but it’s making me feel so old. THAT IS ONLY TWO LESS THAN TEN.

*Ani DiFranco

27 comments August 1st, 2011