Waffling on about depression
Depression has me by the throat. We gave up a lot to help my parents. We left a lot of furniture and treasures behind when we moved into this plumbing nightmare of a house.
I have done my best to carve out a second room for us to use (it was my dad's hoarded room before then). My mother's office contains my old, tiny desk and bookshelves filled with her scripts and research books. We set it up in the foyer. It does not look bad, actually.
Last night, she bitched up a storm. "The internet doesn't work," she pointed to her old computer.
"No. It's not hooked up. You don't have wifi on that computer."
"I want it hooked up!"
Why? She never used it before.
And then she lamented not having her old desk.
"Hire someone to move it downstairs," I sighed. "I don't like your desk anyway. And it's too heavy for us to move."
"What will you use?"
Without missing a beat, I replied, "Nothing"
Up went her hands. "I'll buy myself a desk."
Fine.
"But I want another bookshelf down here." It was not a request.
At this point, my irritation level was pegging at ten. "Where you going to put it?"
"In front of the stairs!"
Oh, fuck no. Just...no, no, no. Her hoard is NOT going to cover the only beautiful thing in this house. Fucking 1980s laminated oak plywood shelving does not belong in a 90 year old house foyer as it is.
"Mom, use a short bookcase. You have four filled with crap you never use."
"I want to buy my own desk." That reply had nothing to do with bookshelves, obviously, which meant she was not going to budge on those bookshelves.
Also, said bookshelf would come from my paltry three bookshelves upstairs still filled with my dad's stuff.
... Thus my depression. No matter how hard I try, it will never be enough and it certainly won't be good enough. I am not my dad. He could fix anything and everything. I did not inherit his genius.
So, yeah, I am in depression's grip. I have an appointment with my therapist today. We will laugh over my mother's nonsense and other topics. We will reflect upon my grief and guilt over dad's passing. And then I will come home, go into the bathroom, and scream into the thick bath towels.
But my poorly-done-by grousing (aka pity party) will likely slip away in an hour or so.