Alice suffers from depression. This is very hard for mamas. I suffer with her, but she suffers pain that I could never know. I think I might be bad for her depression. As in “make it worse.” I make dumb jokes to try to lighten her load, such as offering to cut a hole in her door to slide plates of food through when things are bad.
There is some up sides to being depressed. Bank on me to think of this. I can’t actually think of too many at this exact moment, but I can think of one. Depressed people write beautiful poetry. Really Beautiful. That’s because they are deep. I can’t write poetry with a ten foot pole. That’s because I’m quite shallow. Alice’s poetry makes one ache. My poetry, by graphic contrast, makes one barf. She writes beautiful fiction. The smattering of fiction that I have written, well. Its a good thing that fiction writing is not one of the requirements of attaining heaven. I’m having a tough time just meeting the real requirements.