Have I ever told you how I write you? Obviously, it’s via my phone or the computer in the living room when no one’s around. I mean, have I ever told you why I write you the things I write?
Sometimes it’s because of something I said that I wanted you to remember. Sometimes it’s because you’re busy and I still want to tell you all of these things. Sometimes I cut and paste text conversations. And sometimes it’s what I’d say to you if you were here.
Sometimes, like tonight, it’s just to inform you.
I’m home alone. I worked all day. Jenn is working, our children are with their father. It’s me and the dogs and Netflix.
I got up to make myself a cup of coffee after working online for a bit. I looked around at the house that needs to be dusted, vacuumed, painted, have carpet ripped up. I looked out the window to the yard that needs to be mowed, bushes that need to be trimmed, general maintenance that needs to be done.
Then it hit me.
The difference you make.
When you are home, there’s no laundry on our bed, waiting to be folded and put away. No tangled sheets where I’ve pushed and pulled them into a shape that resembles you on your side of the bed.
When you are home, there are no dishes in the sink to be washed, no empty dinner table. No trash to be taken out.
There’s no dog fur on the carpet, waiting for me to vacuum. No dust on the shelves and photo frames. My plants aren’t falling over, begging to be watered. My orchids bloom.
My legs are smooth, my gray hairs colored, my nails and toenails are painted perfectly when you are home. My makeup is flawless.
I don’t sit in the dark, watching episode after episode of some true crime show on Netflix. I don’t drink coffee by the gallon and Mountain Dew by the oceanful twenty ounces at a time. I don’t chain smoke.
We cook together, eat together, clean up together, take the dogs for a walk.
I look over at them now, stretched out on the floor and feel sorry for them. I know that you’ll call later and just hearing your voice on speakerphone is enough to get them up and moving. How excited they get just to hear you.
I can relate.
When you’re home, I wake up slowly and lay next to you, taking in the vision before me. The way the sun comes in our windows and plays on your face. I bounce out of bed. I water plants and cook and sing out loud.
When you’re gone it’s all I can do to claw my way out of the sheets and put my feet on the floor.
When you’re home we shower together, we take bubble baths together, we watch movies, listen to music, talk.
When you’re gone the idea of taking a shower is too much. I can’t stand a bath. I guess I still haven’t gotten over my near drowning experience. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I ignore phone calls and texts.
I just wanted you to know the difference you make in my life.
I know that it’s depression. I know that I am struggling. I also know that it won’t always be this way.
That’s how I get out of bed.