This is what depression looks like.
A lady rolled her eyes at me today.
Normally, I'm too busy to notice this kind of thing. Normally, I'm too secure in myself to care.
How do I know she was rolling her eyes at me and not some unrelated situation? Well, let me set the scene. I was at the library. It was a failed attempt at story time.
What's a failed attempt at story time, you ask? Well, it looks something like this:
I take my nearly 3 year old to our closest library for an 11:15am story time. When we get there, there's a massive gas leak, with 3 fire trucks on sight to let me know just how terrifying the situation is. When I suggest to my son that maybe we should go to a playground instead, he cries hysterically.
"But Mommy! I need a story time! I need da LIBERRY!"
Sure, I could use this as a teachable moment, show my little man that life doesn't always go as planned, that you have to roll with the punches.
But good God is it hot and humid outside. I wanted to go to the LIBERRY, too.
So I drive us across town to another, more popular story time. We're about 15 minutes late, and when we walk in - it's packed. Wall to wall toddlers and women. The air thick with sweat and milk and organic snacks. Writhing limbs like a mass of maggots on a rotting steak. All with a "Wheels on the Bus" soundtrack pounding shrilly.
I am ready to tough it out, to hurdle over little bodies and find a 1'x1' square in which to squeeze myself, but Sam sternly says, "NO, MOMMY. DAT'S TOO LOUD!"
So we go to the kids library to peruse books and play with communal toys instead.
And it was fine, it really was. Sam was happy pulling books off the shelves and playing with ratty toys and plopping in my lap periodically to give me sloppy and delicious kisses. Then he found the computer - the damned computer they put at the kids' level so then the kids beg to use a computer the whole time instead of looking at analog books - WHICH IS THE WHOLE REASON YOU BRING YOUR KID TO THE LIBRARY. And the threenager emerged.
I didn't bring my card, so I couldn't log him on. I'm also still drowning in a sea of depression, so I can't do things like muster up the gumption to go ask a librarian to look up my library card number for me. I just wanted him to drop it, to move on. But toddlers are not know for their ability to just go with the flow and accept change.
So, the tantrum began. He threw himself all over the place, and even banged his little leg on a chair. I was calm. I didn't take it personally. I didn't get angry at him. If anything, I felt bad for the poor guy. He wanted to go on the computer but his sad mom couldn't help him with that.
So I let him get it out, and then I opened my arms. "Need a hug, Sam?"
He did. He crawled into my arms and bawled. He clung to me and shook with the anger and frustration and misery that come with being a toddler.
And as I snuggled my nose into his soft, sweet blond hair, I felt eyes on me.
I looked up. She was tall, thin. Had on a nice dress and full makeup. Her tiny daughter clung passively to her skirt hem. She held a stack of age-appropriate picture books in her well-manicured hands and she rolled her eyes at me. Like, literally at me. Like a stone she was hurling. There was no mistaking that the rolling of her eyes was directed at me. And it stung.
I guess it's easy to roll your eyes at me right now. First, I have a toddler throwing a full-on tantrum on the floor of the library - the place that insists on quiet. And if you didn't know my sweet little guy, he might look like a brat. A little tyrant who screams when he doesn't get his way.
She has no way of knowing what an extraordinary little boy he is. How easy he's been in so many ways. How he hugged me and said, "Mommy, I love you so much" when I started crying at breakfast this morning. How he's coping not just with adapting to this crazy planet I brought him into, but doing so with a mom who lately has next to no energy yet a surplus of emotions.
Also, there's my appearance. Yoga pants, t-shirt, flip flops, hair in a messy bun (and by "messy bun" I mean unkempt and oily, not sassy and sexy like the celebrities). I look like a lady who does't give a crap about anything - not my appearance, not my kid's behavior, certainly not the regular use of shampoo. I'm a caricature of the exhausted mom who's given up.
I almost felt like standing up, linking arms with her, and saying, "Yep, I'm a slob and crappy mom, aren't I? I'm inclined to agree with you."
But I didn't. I sat there and thought about all the things she couldn't see. The fact that her one and only child is mellow - hasn't yet hit a difficult patch. That she may feel pretty secure in her parenting skills at this moment, but all it would take is another kid or the terrible two's to knock her confidence down a peg.
That my outward appearance is a mirror of the inner sadness and stagnation I feel. That I've struggled with depression all summer. That my personal life is about as messy and complicated as it's ever been, and I don't know what to do about it. That dragging myself and my son here today was a huge accomplishment, and I'm frankly mad nobody threw a ticker tape parade for me.
I just closed my eyes and reminded myself, for the hundredth time today, that this is temporary. That things will get better. That I'll figure it out. That just because this woman thinks I deserve an eye roll doesn't mean she's right.
And, of course, I have no idea what she's going through, either. She looks so put together, so with it. But she may be struggling, too. She may go home today with her placid little tot and cry into her coffee over a thousand problems nobody can see.
In fact, that may be why she so openly judged me in the first place. And normally, I'd have compassion for her.
But not now. Not today.