This time, it started with Elphaba. You know Elphaba, don’t you? Elphaba Thropp? Green of skin, black of clothing and just a little bit “Wicked”?
See, “Wicked” is my favorite musical. Ever. Of all time. Future generations are going to have to work hard to come up with something to surpass it. (And yes, I have the book and know that my musical isn’t REALLY how Gregory Maguire imagined Oz, but just LISTEN to “I’m Not That Girl” or “As Long As You’re Mine” and then tell me how far fetched it all is.)
“Wicked” is so good, in fact, that I’ve seen it three times. This is a record for me. Besides the ever popular, always around performances of “The Sound of Music”, I’ve never seen any musical more than once.
So, when I saw that it was coming to Nashville this fall, I was excited. Galinda. Fiyero. Nessarose. ELPHABA. Just a few hours away. Wouldn’t it be exciting? I could listen to my soundtrack. I could bone up on my songs. I could pretend to Defy Gravity. “Wicked” IS, after all, the best musical EVER.
I forgot I can’t drive. I forgot that I’m married to a wonderfully sweet, generous man who HATES MUSICALS.
HE doesn’t think “Wicked” is the best show ever. HE doesn’t care about seeing Elphaba again. HE is not going to shell out money for the tickets.
The answer was no.
The answer remains no.
And so it began.
This time.
See, I’ve known that I’m depressed for years.
I can’t tell you when it began.
There are stories of overwhelmed grandmothers and great aunts in hospitals. There are incidents of the women in my family being unable to leave their beds. There are drawn curtains and homes left unrung with the sound of the laughter of friends.
But for me. For me, it probably began with adolescence.
I know, I know, I’m a walking cliche.
Blame the hormones.
Blame the move to another continent.
Blame the introduction of junior high school popularity contests.
Whatever it was, I got it. My diary entries (which are probably filled with oh so ordinary teenage problems now that I look back on them) speak of headaches. Many many headaches.
Eventually the headaches gave way to naps.
Naps gave way to withdrawal.
And withdrawal…? Well we’re still gestating on that.
While we’re gestating, the clouds are circling. Anything can cause them.
A friend suddenly begins backing out of a relationship? There comes a little puff of wind.
Someone breaks plans only to dine with another couple? The first little patter begins to fall.
My name is called in the exact same inflection as it had been during childhood sessions of “What did you screw up NOW?” The sky begins to darken and the thunder announces its presence.
I try to help a customer or take over a new task only to be told that someone else will be performing said service because I would only mess it up anyway? KA-BOOM.
The little group I sometimes hang out with used to call me a “social butterfly” because I was always making plans to go somewhere.
It’s true, I suppose. I don’t like being in the house if I can help it. Kenny keeps it dark. Kenny doesn’t mess with the temperature. But mostly, THERE ARE NO PEOPLE THERE.
My phone doesn’t ring. My bell doesn’t chime. I’m not what you would call “popular”.
It’s my fault, I suppose.
I can be curt. I can be weird. How many other people do you know who have to leave stores at the mall because the music makes them cry?
I don’t like talking on the phone. It makes me twitchy. I can’t read facial expressions and I’m too poorly able to read nuance to really be able to tell what the other party is saying.
I tend to talk about myself. ALOT. If I’m not talking about myself, I’m talking about Kenny. I try to be a kind, empathetic person, but sometimes I come across as cold and uncaring. At best, I appear disinterested. At worst, I’m perceived as egotistical.
And don’t even get me started on my compulsions. I drive my husband crazy with my inability to “take a break”. I either have to see a task through or not start it at all.
I’m constantly washing my hands.
I can’t leave a doll in a face down position and all toys have to be neatly put away before I’ll leave the preschool area.
I’m strange. I’m weird.
I’m more alone than I’m not.
It hurts of course, but I don’t know how to change it.
I don’t know how to MAKE the phone ring with party invitations.
I don’t know how to go back in time and teach my husband how to stand the summer months so that somewhere between my “Touch me, hold me, love me, PLEASE” and his “People born to Depression Era babies don’t show physical affection and besides, can’t you feel how hot and sticky it is today?” we can find SOME kind of happy medium.
I don’t know how to talk myself into staying in a crowded area without the panic that the massive amounts of people will somehow…okay, who am I kidding? It’s not the people, it’s the strangers.
I’m friendly. I really am. I like people. For the most part, I LOVE my church friends and shop customers. I like hearing people’s stories and living vicariously through their adventures.
But I’ve been told over and over again that people don’t like me.  Er…okay, no one has ever said those exact words, but the implications are there. “Don’t ask so many questions.” “You get too personal too fast.” “Can’t you just let people BE?”
So, I’m scared of strangers. The people closest to me seem to make…allowances? adjustments?
I’m often treated as if I’m a child or some sort of pet.
Jobs are done before I can get to them.
Remarks are explained away as being just my “way”.
I have translators and explainers and it’s just easier to play with the preschoolers rather than having to try and make my way through yet another conversation. It’s easier to play with paints and colors and posterboard, with puppets and music and dances than to face ANOTHER social situation that ends in my inevitable mockery.
And my heart grows dimmer and dimmer as I hide it away.
And the clouds circle.
And I join the long line of women in my family who can’t get out of bed.
Even for my babies.
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It’s not always like this, of course. I have a good life.
The first ten nightmare years of our marriage are behind us and we’re doing so much better.
I have three classes at church that I love and I get to learn new songs, new slang and new missionary techniques.
I have wonderful customers at the shop, some of whom even greet me with a hug.
Nothing’s wrong. Not really.
Nothing’s wrong enough to take to my bed for.
The migraines are fading. The hormones are lessoning.
I have the occasional lunch with the girls and movie date with the husband.
But the clouds still circle.
My phone doesn’t ring.
My last three therapists have moved out of state, one after the other.
I’m terrified to make a move on anything out of my “comfort zone” for fear of harming some customer’s important documents.
Nothing’s wrong. Not really.
Kenny says I’m fine. He says we’re busy anyway. We work afternoons and evenings. Church is enough, we don’t need other people.
But it hurts.
It hurts to be a joke.
It hurts to be a failure.
It hurts…right now it hurts…to be me.
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In my dreams, of course, I’m Supergirl.
I clean up messes.
I set things right.
I’m fun.
I’m charming.
I’m beautiful.
I’m not real.
Because really, right now what I am is hurt.
And broken.
And withdrawn.
And always, ever
Alone.