Downy Clowny

I’m not doing super well. I’m pretty depressed, and have enough experience with depression to be able to run down a mental checklist and find it . . . depressing: trouble getting to sleep, crying a lot, feeling empty and exhausted, having a hard time enjoying things I like, and on and on. I often have a darker mental space in the winter, and my husband is far away, and I’ve been having to focus on a lot on my son’s special needs; this isn’t, like, inexplicable. But it doesn’t feel like there’s anything to do about it, really. I go to the movies on Sunday afternoons sometimes, on my time away, and I cry through all the previews: dramatic previews, comedic previews, previews full of smashy robots. I have new, depressed habits.

But my family has noticed, and they worry about me. My parents have therefore said that they will watch the boys for a week, and they bought me a plane ticket, and I’m going to see my sweetheart on December 13. I am incredibly anxious about the trip—I have never travelled away from my boys before. But my parents are close to the kids, and Joey will have been in school for two weeks at that point and will hopefully have settled in somewhat. And I will leave a crazily detailed care plan for both of the little noodles. I sort of get that this is a good idea, and I really like the idea of seeing Mr. Book, but I can’t really focus on anything other than the possibility that the boys will never forgive me.