Mid October and the greens of Summer are still holding on. The fall color here is being prolonged and for some that is a good thing. I am seeing it as a slow death. Winter is just around the corner and in that darkness is where all the memories are.
Shayne has been gone for a while now. And on his birthday today I miss him more than ever. In part because there is no one like Shayne for commiserating with. But also, because birthdays and deaths are milestones, markers in time that we habitually use to measure our own lives. If not in a straight line be line comparison then in the degrees of change, or sameness, in our own lives.
I find myself in rather the same boat that I was in 6 years ago when Shayne first started his rounds with the hospitals and long term care. I am homeless again. This time it isn't money that has changed my circumstance. The changing economy and balance of growth in my home town has made finding a place perilous at times. Homes are snatched away from the renting populace for the allure of fast cash AirBnB, which is completely illegal in my town. Yet, that is stopping no one. And then there is the mental health aspect.
I hit a bad bout of depression. Since I haven't posted in a long while (election blues?) you have all missed out on the adventures in peri-menopause, complications of heart disease, a new career (yes, I have to call Wal-mart a career path), misadventures in self publishing, and the standard Exclusions in Roommate Agreements. It's the peri-menopause depression that I want to talk to Shayne about. As a guy with some pretty serious sensitivity issues and extreme Virgo tendencies, no one understood depression and hormones better than Shayne. And being Jewish, the genetically long put upon and long suffering people of the world, no one was better at finding the humor and converting the darkness into workable energy. My humor is fading.
I spent the last 5 years living with a very good friend, a best friend. As we shared two very important traits, both of us though that there was no one better to live with than someone else who understood depression and mental health issues. Then a heart attack (mine), suicidal tendencies (her kid), fiscal setbacks (mine), and defensiveness(hers) set upon the house like a plague. When Shayne died I set aside my need to grieve to step in and help when the first attempt was made. Then somehow never really got around to the grieving part because we were living the Golden Girls dream we wanted for ourselves. But last year something changed. I did what I was told to do and did something with my art. Which made my housemate mad. I'm still not sure why. And right after publishing my book, I had a round of SAD compounded with peri-menopausal symptoms land me the biggest bout of high functioning depression I have ever had.
I worked. I worked like a horse. When I got home I did nothing. I was drained of all my energy, I hurt in places that I didn't know I had. My chest felt like it was going to bounce right out of my chest. I never was warm. And for once, I hated being chilled. What the hell was going on? I feel like I could have told you that answer if my therapist hadn't retired. If I could have talked to my house mate I might have a better answer. I don't though. The best I can say is that after dealing with the household full of mental disorders for the four years prior, everything fell on my and it was my turn.
This is where one would think that other people who have experienced the same would have compassion. That was not the case. Last year at this time I was told to leave. I am home too much. They liked it much better when I paid rent and wasn't home because I was with the boyfriend at the time. My mental health issues were too much. And when the Roommate Agreement was violated and I stood up for myself that was really the last straw.
Shayne would totally have gotten that.
Shayne would also have appreciated my horror stories in finding housing.
I am isolated again. I have abject terror at the thought of going back to the shelter when it opens. The climate among the homeless people is different than it was 6 years ago. I am even afraid to go to community meals and get the free shower. I feel like after a year of looking for housing and having the weirdest of things happen that I am just better off letting the elements decide my fate. Shayne would get that too. He would be appalled at my lack of faith in a good ending and my fatalism. But he would also help me see the humor in things. I see no humor any more. The first 16 times plans fell through was funny. The next 40 were mildly amusing. But I've been through the alphabet so many times now looking for the plan that works that I just don't want to keep trying.
I wish that Shayne was here to talk to. But I also wish that everyone who has gone ahead of me was still here. Mostly, I wish that I was with them.
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