Do you know what I think about a lot? Because I feel like I am never not thinking. I haven’t quite reached the point of sleeping again yet, but there are starting to be really close to almost frequent times that I’m not awake, but even then still my little brain is whirling. Anyhoos, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about that viral analogy of depression being like shoveling snow (if you haven’t read it, you should and if you really can’t be bothered to find it or remember to find it, let me know and I’ll find it and send it your way…it will either be immediately or two days later at 3am).
So I’ve been thinking about that a lot and about this time I went to Canada as a kid. Lately, I’ve had an influx of new Canadian friends (new to me, probably not to the country) and one day, in what I hope was endearing but, probably actually just seemed very American in the bad kind of way, I was extremely panicked for a bride who was having an outdoor wedding. The forecast was calling for rain and temperatures in the low 30’s IN THE MIDDLE OF JULY. Obviously, I wanted to feel for her because rain is my ultimate concern (some time reminder me to tell you the Tim Allen tie in there), but also where the hell does she live that it is that cold in July?! I mean, really, who plans a wedding in Antarctica?! So I said “there, there” and that the rain really shouldn’t be her concern, rains blows through! but really maybe focus on some outdoor space heaters…all while trying to not be like “well, the faults kind of on you for picking a frozen tundra as an outside wedding venue…” Then either she or someone else pointed out the bride lives in Canada and I was full on an American thinking, “holy sh*t, Canada REALLY is cold all the time. F that.” Right about then I realized that they pointed out Canada thinking I’d connect the dots to the temperature being in Celsius….which I did, eventually, just unfortunately after I had already made some weather related remarks that ran along the lines of “bless her heart.”
Which is how my head worked it’s way around to shoveling depression snow and Canada. That really could have used a better transitions, but bear with me, I’m rusty. So, anyways, when I was in like 4th grade we went to Canada and after, honest to God, sticking a stick in a pail of syrup hanging from a tree then rolling it in the snow to eat in some Narnia like only less charming forest (which I now realize is what imagine that poor bride’s wedding venue was going to be like minus the murderous snow queens bc like the American stereotype, I totally buy into the super nice Canadian one).
We all pile back onto the tour bus to drive a billion kilometers (that probably really only actually converts to like 3.2 miles or something) back to the hotel. Out there in this nowhere that to me, as a Southerner, seemed exactly as depicted in the Olympic opening games, there were houses dotting the landscape that all had crazy colored roofs; I’m talking colors of the stucco homes in the Bahamas or down here on Rainbow Row except it was only the roofs. As a boring adult, part of me wonders if someone just really wanted to show that HOA a thing or two with some creative loophole on painting shingles that took off in the neighborhood. Back then being the opposite of a boring adult who ponders HOA requirements, this overly energetic, inquisitive child asked the guide. I kid you not, they paint the flipping roofs of the houses, REAL LIFE SIZE TWO STORY HOUSES, different, brightly, easily identifiable colors SO THEY CAN IDENTIFY THEIR HOMES WHEN IT SNOWS. Think about that. So much snow that they can only spot their roofs in the white. Even as a child I have a whole bunch of “oh hell no’s” right then and there.
And it just makes me think how hard it has to be to be depressed in Canada. Partly, that’s me making jokes, but on the serious, it is this constant visual that is now attached to the depression analogy of shoveling snow. It seems so vivid and real and I wish everyone could be trying to get circulation back into their fingers while already perplexed that anyone considers that stick you just had a dessert or that anyone lives in that cold voluntarily only to be given the explanation that even more snow comes, more snow than you could ever imagine because you have to paint your fucking roof to find a house in it. There’s just that much GD snow. How different would everything be if everyone could attach a visual like that to our mental disease?
Except all this was about Celsius and not Fahrenheit and it only gets brought up for discussion when someone can’t handle the snow and that is no good because sometimes it does snow in July. And sometimes it doesn’t even occur to you to convert degrees to the metric system just like it doesn’t even occur to you that you’re sad. And yes, I know “sad” is a grossly simplified descriptive word in this instance.
Have you missed me circling back around because there’s a point, I swear? Well, here we go. Somewhere in all of these changes it didn’t occur to me to convert the degrees. I worried about the snow not the rain even though the snow didn’t exist.
As a writer, as a creative type, as someone who makes things (or in the realms of domestics destroys or burns things) I’d go mad if I didn’t have an outlet. Yeah, I know, the blog is sparsely blah but blogging doesn’t pay bills so the creativity freedom became the habit of a notebook (that couldn’t be electronically linked to anything else as intellectual property). And only recently did I realize that the notebooks were forgotten along with the umbrellas for the very real rain that was coming while I started stockpiling heaters for the snow that didn’t exist. Once that realization dawned on me everything clicked into place like I had switched my iPhone location to Ontario.
None of this is cohesive, there is no flow, but….it isn’t hidden in my head either. So to the bartender who wasn’t tending bar that made me cry when he said I sucked at pinball (total lies, by the way), I very unstealthy stole brownies on my way out that I forgot about and later found (like legit regular brownies bc I’m a fat kid who loves cake not the kind of brownies you’d guess were in a bar on a weekend night) that reminded me you said I used to write stellar stuff. Even though I think you may have some questionable scales of talent since you clearly don’t recognize my pinball abilities, thank you. Oh! Let’s really mix the metaphors and go for broke! You were my symbolic bright pink roof in the middle of the snowstorm. Thanks for reminding me to find my way home to the written word. Promise to dust off the rust, no promises on terrible puns, rambling takeaways, or mixed metaphors. Most definitely no promises on proofing or punctuation….