From pebbles

Eventually, I slept, but it took a long time to find my way into that welcome dark.

The day had not been bad. In fact, it had been a good day—from the lunches ready to go in the morning, to the homework done at her desk without complaint, to the other one’s calm goodnight.

And: In the middle of the day, I had sushi with dear friends, to celebrate one’s birthday. Two of the friends I had not seen in some time. I was not as tongue-tied as I had feared I might be.

It is difficult to be my friend. I know it. I feel ashamed, duck my head at drop-off and pickup time at the girls’ school. I wish I were someone different—someone answering phone calls all day long, laughing, filling up calendar squares.

When I look back, though, I see that I was never that person. I was always a floater, trying to be friendly to all, but keeping much of my life to myself. Solitude has always felt right to me; solitude, or the company of a few close friends and family. And whomever I was in love with.

I never know what to say to the friends I haven’t seen for a while. I love them very much, and yet I find it a monumental challenge in this painful chapter of my life to reach out to them. Others are going through painful times too, of course. And yet I have so little to give, most days, because I am saving every ounce of energy for the girls and me.

My therapist and friend, R, suggested, “What if you don’t pathologize it? What if you recognize that you need to do what you need to do right now? Only you know how much energy you have and what you can handle.”

There is compassion and sense to this.

Complicating matters these days: The lithium is a powerful drug. At first, I could not drive because it affected my vision. I could not walk without lurching into walls. I could not pick up a cup of coffee without spilling it.

It’s a humbling drug in other ways as well: fast weight gain that defies any diet plan, painful acne, thyroid wackiness leading to constant bone-deep cold and shivers, and disturbing brain fog. I fight to find the right words. I use the wrong words and blush. Speaking has become more difficult. This I find particularly upsetting. No one notices, or at least not very often, but I know that my verbal prowess has been given a good solid beating, and I wonder when it’s going to get up off its knees.

The lithium reins in the highs and yanks up the lows, but the cost is significant. I feel large and very, very small at the same time.

The cost of not being on lithium, of course, is worse, in my case. Or seems to be.

There is the bipolar disorder, but there is also the situation. To tease these two apart is not possible. But last night, I think the situation was what crept up the stairs, into my room, onto my bed, into my heart.

I’ve tried to shut it out, tried to develop a tougher hide recently. I’ve tried to focus on the positive—two wonderful little girls who make me laugh, a mother nearby who loves me with all her heart, family and friends everywhere who care very much, dogs who remind me again and again what it is to live purely and simply and appreciate small comforts.

Late last night, the sadness won out—the sense of, no, no, this can’t be my life, this should not be happening, this cannot possibly be happening. I felt the familiar panic, the sensation of drowning, waves of misery swelling. This is not what I want. I want hope, contentment. I cannot find it, cannot see it anywhere on the horizon.

I reached for the pebbles that the Rabbi had given me. Smooth, worn, cool to the touch. I held them. I kissed them. Sitting on the bed between two flatulent dogs—because, truly, prayer happens best in these humble places—I told God I did not know what to do with this pain. I told God I needed help, that the dark tide was coming in again and I was going under. I told God I was handing the pain over to him, that I hoped He/She/Wonderful It was there.

I told God that I am trying, so hard. That I am still barely making it through the day. That I hope I am being the best mother I can be. That I hope He will shield the girls from the pain leaking out of my eyes when they mention their daddy. I said I was sorry for my screw-ups, my impatience, my mistakes, my part in it all.

I cried, because I think there is a God, but who can say? I kissed the pebbles again, and I put them next to me on the bed, where the girls’ daddy used to sleep.

I closed my eyes. Finally, finally, I slept.

In the morning, the pebbles had sprouted. Beside me lay a sleeping Sophie.

I woke her up. “Honey,” I said, “You slept on rocks! Didn’t that hurt?”

“What rocks?” She blinked, still half-asleep.

I showed her the pebbles. She smiled. “I didn’t feel them at all,” she said, and shrugged.

We must take our miracles where we can. From dry pebbles on a mattress, in the middle of the night, a child I adore sprouted and bloomed. If that is not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

This morning, when we tried on her pants, none fit. She grew overnight, on the pebbles.

I said thank you. To You-Know-Who.

Later this morning, I went to the hospital, the same hospital I had stayed in at its psych ward. This time, I had to have blood drawn, to have my lithium levels checked. I chewed on my beloved mother’s coat (she still had it on) while the technician took vials from my left arm. Afterwards, while my mother made a phone call, I went to visit the hospital chapel.

Inside there was a trough of pebbles much like mine. Above the pebbles a painting hung: a sprouting plant.

“Ah,” I said to no one in particular. “Of course.”

I said thank you again.

There is never a shortage of reasons to say thank you.