The Month of Mail

Two years ago, I wrote this post about some of the letters I’d saved over the years. As a kid, I loved receiving mail and figured out quickly that the best way to get it was to send it. I wrote to my brother when he went to Marine boot camp and to my cousin while she was away at college. After we moved from New York state to Arizona, I exchanged letters for years with my grandmother and the friends I’d left behind. When I went off to college myself, I wrote my boyfriend back home every single day, a romantic strategy that backfired after he started to feel overwhelmed by the deluge. Letters in the mail said more than the information they contained. They were a way to let someone know that he or she was worth the effort it took to set those words on paper by hand.

With the ease of email and inexpensive long-distance calls, I don’t get many new additions to the letter pile anymore, and I miss them. Our communications these days are quickly typed and easily forgotten. Like the pictures we store on our phones and computers, they leave no tangible record of our relationships with each other — unless, of course, you’re Anthony Weiner.

Someone else out there has been thinking about the lost art of letter-writing. Mary Robinette Kowal writes a blog called A Month of Letters, and she’s put forth a challenge. Send out something every day in February that mail is delivered, which turns out to be 24 days (Sundays and holidays are excluded). You don’t have to hand write War and Peace in your missives. Postcards, newspaper clippings, birthday cards, and notes jotted on a PostIt all count.

I’m intrigued to know what might come of this experience. Maybe I’ll be able to coax my handwriting muscles past the cramping stage. I also wonder if slowing down will change what I write. Once upon a time, before I became so adept at the computer, I had to do everything longhand first, then transfer it over. Perhaps the parts of my brain that work more deliberately also allow access to  different ideas. I’m already excited about putting together a list of what to send and to whom. And I’m curious to know what the ripple effects might be for the recipients.

I’m going to try it. One mailing every delivery day in February. I’ll let you know how it goes. Maybe you’ll even hear about it in a letter.

Is It Dark in Here, or Is It Just Me?

Long time, no post. My mother always said, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” (Maybe that wasn’t my mother, but somebody said it.) And it’s been so dark inside my head lately, silence seemed like the best choice.

December was a difficult month. One of our sons was hospitalized while doctors tried to figure out why he was having difficulty breathing. They tossed around the phrase “pulmonary embolism” for two days, which was terrifying until all the test results came back negative. We still don’t know what caused the shortness of breath, only what didn’t. Then one of my friends lost her dad, and another buried her brother a couple weeks later. At the end of December, a woman Mike thought of as a second mother died, and he spent a week in Kentucky mourning with her family. I realize that there are only 12 months in a year, so there’s bound to be an occasional pileup of unhappy events, but knowing that didn’t make any of it easier to take.

I’d been feeling a little “off” since the end of November anyway but chalked it up to the anniversary of my own mother’s death at the beginning of December. When I got past that, I figured, I’d be okay. But not. By then, about half the people I knew were pissing me off, a sure sign that the problem was with me, not them. All right, maybe I’d be better after Christmas. Nope. My writing seemed trite and pointless, I wasn’t sleeping, woke up exhausted every morning, and spent way too much time pondering existential questions that only dug the hole a little deeper. Thinking is the right response to a lot of situations, but if you’re in a dark space, it rarely improves your mood.

The surprising part is that only a few people noticed that I wasn’t doing well. I have no formal training in the theater but am quite skilled at acting like a normal person in public, so the worse I feel, the more gregarious I appear. There’s probably a diagnosis code for that. My husband, of course, caught on first but didn’t know how to help because I wouldn’t let him. My friend Dan tried, too, with about the same result. A small shift finally came when my middle brother called to see if I was, as we say, dead in a ditch — family code for, “Are you okay?” I want to credit him with saying the one brilliant thing that turned everything around, but that would be an exaggeration. He did make me laugh at things that only Yaugers find funny, and talking to him let in just enough light that I started to think I could do something to help myself feel better.

I haven’t used the D word yet: depression. But of course that’s what it is. It’s not severe, just miserable, and the fact that it’s been dragging on for nearly two months means I can’t just wait it out. It may be a response to recent events or from some hormonal change (and that’s all I’m going to say about that), but either way, it’s brought its suitcases and plans to stay awhile. Anti-depressants are trendy, but I reject the whole take-a-pill response when other avenues haven’t yet been explored. And so…

I have mostly given up my evening glasses of wine, a decision that was nearly as sad for me as the depression itself. However, alcohol is a depressant, which I clearly don’t need, and it messes with my already screwed up sleep. In order not to feel completely deprived, I still drink wine when we go out but have stopped buying it for home. I will grudgingly admit that this has been a good decision, although it means I am nearly out of vices. I resent this a bit.

I’m starting to make myself get out of the house every day because, as tempting as it is to stay in my pink fuzzy robe until after lunch, a little distraction goes a long way toward improving my outlook. Even a shallow chat with the cashier at Trader Joe’s is enough to remind me that I’m part of the human race. Also, Mike’s retirement benefits include a membership at the YMCA, so I’m trying some sweat therapy. I’ve always exercised, but now I’ve bumped it up a notch so I really sweat. I look like a rat running on a wheel when I’m on that stupid treadmill, but I’m not in it for looks. I’m after the endorphins. The steam room has been good for that, too. So is sex. (‘Nuff said. The kids may be reading.)

I am better but not back to my normal self. It’s possible that my normal self is undergoing renovation, so I’m trying to ride the waves without going under. I’m 50 years old now, and it’s fair to expect a lot of changes from here on out. Maybe depression like this is the chaos before the new order. Maybe it has something to teach me. “Bend or break,” my friend Terri used to coach me when I was up against something unfamiliar. This might be the decade when I finally figure out what she was talking about.