Thinking Out Loud, Part III

A Continuation of This

It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.

I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.

The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.

I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,

"Please come."

The Parents live 300 miles away - through three major mountain passes and some of the highest (ie snowiest) terrain in the state. My mom works full-time. The weekend forecast was for more storms.

She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.

I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.

The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.

Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."

Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.

I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.

To be continued ...