Poo

It’s August. I know I haven’t written in a couple of days. It’s not you, it’s me. As I told Max last night, I just can’t bear my own relentless negativity right now and I don’t see the point of exposing other people to it. I’m the poo and everything feels like shit. I think I was the only person in the theater on Saturday who didn’t like Oppenheimer. I can’t find anything to watch on streaming TV anymore, not a single documentary or series. Everything feels bad. Yes, I know that’s my depression talking.

Max said, be the poo and look up out of the bowl at the water and the air. He was trying hard and I have to give him credit for running with the analogy the way he did.

Last night I dreamed I was in a clothing store with a little girl, not Sarah but another little girl I happened to be caring for, and she had an accident and soiled her clothes. (Sorry, there’s a lot of poo in today’s post.) I was trying to clean her up and then take her to get some ice cream. It reminds me now as I’m typing of an incident that happened when I was very little, maybe three years old. I wet my pants on an outing with my mother, my brother, and a friend of my mother’s. The friend of my mother fashioned a sari for me out of a beach towel (we were on a picnic somewhere, maybe Hain’s Point) and I wore that instead of my wet clothes. We ended up in Georgetown getting ice cream with me in my sari. It seemed to turn into a special day.

I guess my unconscious is trying to find something good in all this. Or trying to nurture that little girl part of me that feels like shit? Clean myself up and take myself out for ice cream? I just want one thing to feel good today.