How I SHOULD Feel, How I DO Feel and The Space In Between

It is 5:37pm. I am still wearing my pajamas. The evidence of my good intentions is strewn throughout the house -- a vacuum in my messy room, luggage below the attic door, clean clothes in a basket in the living room, the dishwasher open and loaded halfway.

Outside it is a rainy, fall day. Usually my favorite kind. Our Aspen leaves have turned to golden coins. The sun, filtered through clouds, creates a glow around everything it touches. Puddles in the street. Troy and Keilauni playing barefoot, in over-sized denim jackets on the sidewalk. It is JOY made tangible outside my window.

My arms are full of the soft heaviness of a new baby. It should be the sweetest thing. But somehow, though I hold him in my arms, I can't quite hold him in my heart the way I want to.

This is what makes me so angry. The should-be-able-to, the why-can't-I. I should be enJOYing this day, soaking up the yellow glow, the rain cool on my feet and wet in my hair. I should be JOYous as I hold this precious boy in my arms, not two steps above resentful. And why can't I ever finish anything? Why can't I manage to get dressed before 6pm (and then only because I'm embarrassed to have Kevin come home and find me in pajamas)? Why can't I clean my room? Teach the baby to take naps somewhere other than my arms? Clean up after our vacation?

Why can't I just be happy?

Call it postpartum depression. Call it seasonal affective disorder. Call it major depression with a hint of anxiety. Call it maternal attachment disorder. Call it what you will.

I call it stolen time. It makes me angry, because there's this part of me that senses that how I am feeling much of the time lately is not normal. I should be able to enJOY this time, be as overwhelmed with JOY as I was 2 1/2 months ago. After all, this is the fulfillment of the months of expectation and preparation I have enJOYed this year. This should be the climax. Should be.

But it's not working this way. I'm finally able to admit it. I'm depressed. The lows are lower -- anger sharper, hurt deeper, sadness longer, guilt heavier. The highs, on the other hand, settle just above blah.

I have endured depression many times, in many forms. I have been more aware of it some times than others, more smart in the way I take it on. Sadly, one of the beasts of mental illness is that the very lethargy, sadness, guilt and apathy of the illness claw their way into one's resolve to get help, to make it end.

The idea of making a phone call seems a daunting task. Actually going to see a counselor, doctor or bishop for help -- nigh unconquerable.

But underneath it all, beneath the concrete and iron and lead, is a kernel of hope. The absolute knowledge that there is JOY here, too. Here in this abyss there is something to learn, a path toward growth. Deep in me there is a reserve of strength that knows I deserve the normalcy of fleeting emotions, of high highs and low lows that pass through me like the weather outside my window. I know that above it all, filtering through the clouds, there will always be JOY.

I'm going to get there. Just you try to stop me.