#i saw like a diagram of levels of depression and mine was on the pretty mild side

[13eyond13]

13 are you doing okay? You posted a suicide joke and some other sad stuff. I know you’re an adult and can look after yourself but I hope you’re okay :(

Aww I'm sorry, you're right that was pretty dark even for a DN blog. I'm okay and not suicidal, though I wasn't really doing that okay maybe a month or two ago? I was having trouble getting out of bed or doing anything that I was supposed to be doing like my schoolwork or my job or taking care of myself, and my mom got pretty worried and checked on me. I ended up getting help from my doctor for depression, and I am much more functional and getting better now. It seemed to have been sort of brought on by going through the bad hurricane and falling into too much thinking and alone time at home by myself maybe, but I also realized it's something I've also been living with basically my entire adult life and just assuming was totally normal until now. I think it can be helpful to talk openly about mental health struggles and not feel like you have to hide them or disappear until you're feeling perfectly chipper again, so that's why I talk about it, but I don't mean to cause any alarm or to joke callously about seriously upsetting things. I appreciate you checking in anon ♡

[ecotone99]

[MF] Longing

She was even more lovely than the day I first met her. I was standing in Molly’s new living room, still trying to adjust to the always strange feeling of a new, empty house. There’s something calming but intimidating about it; limitless opportunities, but so many choices to be made. Still, the important things were there, the pictures and statues that marked it as undeniably hers. It was a good home.

“…and you remember John.” Mark, Molly’s brother, was introducing me like a virtual stranger.

“Of course I remember John.” I can’t read Molly’s face. It that fatigue? Is she just not happy to see me? It’s been so long, but I thought we left on good terms. Can’t read too much into this, that’s always what gets me. I smile and nod.

Mark and I have spent all day carrying mattresses and disassembling bunk beds. He’s built like some Viking warchief, but I’m at my absolute limit and it’s only noon. I still haven’t found my tongue when he gets down to business, “Where’s the kids’ room?”

“Top of the stairs, right in front of you.” We schlep the pieces of the bunk bed up, one by one, and stage everything around the toys that have already been set up in the room. It’s a beautiful bunk hand-made by Molly's mother almost thirty years ago, with beautiful dark wood and brass round-head screws. This would be what the girls remember as happier times when they’re grown, they'll dream of this the way I dream of my childhood bed when I just want to go back to simpler times, to escape all of this.

I hear thumping from the stairs, and see Molly sliding down on her butt like a little kid. My heart grows a little warmer and I smile. That’s the Molly I know.

Molly was still the same as ever, slim but strong, and with beautiful eyes that could burn right through you if she had half the will. We shared many of the same scars, which only became more and more apparent, but we also seemed to be in the same place, and we talked like old friends who had never skipped a beat. It had been a dozen years and so much had changed, but everything I adored still shone so brightly. Her passion put mine to shame, and the conversations were things of beauty.

“My washer needs to be leveled, the last time I did a load it tried to walk out of the room, and I had to hold it in place until it finished.” Molly was pantomiming holding this galloping box as it tried to escape from the house, clearly finding humor in what was, at the time, a pretty humorless situation.

“John,” Mark’s wife, Heather, chimed in. “If you’re exhausted, maybe you can fix the washer while the guys keep working on the other stuff.”

“I’m on it!” Mark had bought some tools for the house, despite Molly’s insistence she had some in storage . . . somewhere. I’ve done that dance, he made the right call. I tried leveling the washer, but it was pretty well in-spec, plus the installers apparently ran away with the wrench, and none of the ones in the kit were thin enough to work. I started paging through the manual, looking for any other ideas, when I noticed some diagrams showing a similar wrench. Was it actually attached to the back of the machine?

When I looked behind the machine, it was clear the people who purchased and installed it really did not care in the least. The back panel looked like it was pried off with a crowbar and randomly taped back into place, but they’d also left all the shipping bolts in place. No wonder it performed so poorly.

I’d pulled the first bolt as she was walking by, “Hey, Molly.” She stopped and I handed her the bolt. Four inches of plastic a solid inch across with a bolt down the middle. “Here’s your problem. That’s a shipping bolt: there’s three of these in the machine. There should be zero. I’ll get these out and test the machine.”

Molly smiled, “Thanks,” as she turned the bolt over and returned it to me. Twenty minutes and two tests later, I’m staring at the machine, smiling at a finished project as it performs calibrations. “It looks like it’s dancing.” Molly was behind me, watching the drum dance back and forth as the machine learned its balance.

“Yup. The drum will turn both ways for a couple minutes, then it’ll be ready to go.”

Heather later told me that even just fixing her washer made Molly’s day.

I’d never actually considered a relationship with someone with kids before. I’m a very analytical sort of person, and kids really are the antithesis of that. Also, if I don’t have a son, the name ends with me. It’s probably a cop-out, though. When you’re dating someone without kids, it’s about the two of you and if you’re going to have a life together. If you’re dating someone with kids, you need to provide stability and a great environment. You’re basically giving up a whole section of your life to provide for these little people. And the dumbest things you do are the things they’ll remember forever. Maybe that frightens me just a little. Maybe.

“Sit down, I’m gonna push you down the stairs.” It was her younger daughter, and it was slightly less nefarious than it sounds. Slightly. The girls had been taking turns sliding down the stairs; apparently Molly taught them how when they were first shown the place. Well, it was my turn. Much like a tea party, you don’t say no when a kid asks you to play and you don’t have any work.

Well, I tried. I really did. I used to love sliding down the stairs . . . thirty years ago. My boots caught on every single step, and my steel bracelet, a reminder of my friend Glen, dug into my arm with each step. The little one didn’t stop pushing, and I never once complained. She was trying to share something fun, and I’m not the kind of monster who’d say no. “Sorry, I guess my boots got stuck.”

She just smiled, “It’s because kids don’t have knees!” Right, all the old men upstairs were complaining about their knees. I keep forgetting how quickly kids pick up on everything.

I soon found how little had changed in a decade. Our conversations were beautiful, and she still had the fire, but there was something else. Something I didn’t want to connect with.

I’m broken. I can’t say it any other way. I fight depression every day, and I’ve given up. This is life, wishing it would be better is a pipe-dream. Therapy and Prozac didn’t work, it just made me happy about how much I hated my life. I was as stable as I’d been in years off the drugs, but I knew it when I heard it.

We’d just grabbed fast food, and supplying a small team is never really easy. There’s always something, and the fast food counter is ill equipped for a pack of movers and a family of three, many of whom hadn’t eaten all day. We were short some fries, and Molly just sort of decided she was the one to go without. “Do you want my fries?" I asked. “I’ve got enough food.” What else was a gentleman to do?

“No, that’s okay.”

“We could share, there’s plenty.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to the fact that things don’t go right for me.”

It broke my heart. On the one hand, who wouldn’t be sad at that, but on the other, I knew those words. I might not have used them exactly, but I may as well have said them. In one moment, I knew what was going on in her head, I knew her pain, and I knew how the people around me felt when I said those words. It was soul crushing. I’d have done anything to help. To this day I don’t recall if I said it out loud, but I desperately hope I did: “You shouldn’t be.”

I never did see her eat her sandwich.

Mark and I had been friends for many years when I first met Molly, and at first I paid her little mind. I was young and stupid, and didn’t think she was my type, but I was also loyal and smitten, and would not betray Jess for anyone.

That’s not to say she didn’t get under my skin; it was just a slow burn at the right time. We got to talking, and it was beautiful from the beginning. We had common senses of humor, she was never at a loss for conversation, and the fire . . . the fire. The passion she brought to everything never ceased to make me smile. I adored her, but I still honor loyalty above all. When my Fiancée left me, I was shattered. My life was undone and I was adrift. It seems this was part of Jess’ problem with me, I was just happy being with her, and she wanted to “move on” with her life. I don’t understand it and doubt I ever will, but what’s done is done.

It was less than a month later when I saw Molly again, and I was still reeling. I needed connection, I needed something, and she was everything I could’ve asked for to help me pick up the pieces. I asked her to dinner, but she turned me down an then just trailed off with “That would be fun . . . that would be fun . . .” We never did spend time alone together. We’d still talk from time to time, we’d hang out with the group, and we'd enjoy the days you find only in youth, but it never became serious. She married someone I’d never met and started a family. I was glad she found happiness, but I never forgot.

My messenger blinked open. “Hey, so . . . you want to help Molly move again on Saturday?”

It was Mark. I knew what this was. Last week we moved her kids’ bed in and I fixed her washer, but the white whale of the entire move was the piano. We’d rented a dolly, but had to return it before we had a chance to move anything. I was so dead on my feet, I quietly held a little party in my head when we couldn’t move it. I even made a little Dragon Warrior joke image. “Fortune smiles upon thee, for they have decided not to move the piano.” It’s strange how I go back to that sort of thing. Who would possibly make that connection?

“Let me guess, we need to move a piano.”

“… yes …”

I would never refuse to help Mark or Molly. “I’m in.”

“Thank you!”

Well, the piano’s not my job, actually. Her soon to be ex husband was home, and her brother knew what happened the last time I was involved in one of these. That one ended with the man trying to run his estranged wife over with her own car. I stopped that without violence. Barely.

I later learned that’s why her brother kept volunteering me to go places with her; he knew I’d see trouble coming and keep her safe. I stuck with her best I could, but when she announced she was going out back and “I shall return,” I got it. I was glad there were two other adults there, because when the girls tried to out-scream each other, the dog and I looked at each other and he decided now would be an excellent time to go outside to use the facilities, thank you!

I mean, he did. He just needed a leash and company. He also refused to go back inside, but just plopped down where he could see both entrances of the house and the pole barn, then waited for Molly. She actually found me first as I hear a drive-by “Having fun” from behind me seconds before the dog tries to trip me with his own leash to get back to her.

The move itself goes without incident. Her soon to be ex spent the entire time in the garage and you could just feel the mood radiating off of him, so I used my strongest weapon . . . I got him talking about the problems he was having with his lawnmower and soon it was just a bunch of guys talking shop. No problems. Then we went back to Molly’s place.

We’re in transit, alone in the car. “You an old school gamer?”

“Yeah, I grew up on the things.”

She pops in a CD with music that’s obviously an homage to any number of 8-bit games, alternately trying to explain who the artist was and singing along. The music was actually pretty nice, but watching her explain, feeding off her excitement, it was great. When we got into some of her other favorites, ones I knew by heart, it just turned into the two of us singing along, forgetting everything else in the world.

I wish I could bottle that feeling.

“Okay, great story. So, I was at a blood drive back in college, and my tech, whose nametag reads Vlad, has this fascinating accent. So I ask him, ‘if you don’t mind, I can’t place your accent, where are you from?’ And he says, ‘Transylvania, you know, like vampires. Bleh.’”

Molly laughs, “Okay that’s pretty good.”

“Think about it. A Romanian from Transylvania named Vlad took my blood.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that part!”

We’d returned to her place while Mark and the last of the guys who were helping us returned the trailer. She asked me if I knew about one of the single greatest shop chains in the world, which of course I did, and she follows up with, “So, I was on their website . . .”

My eyes go wide. “They have a website?” Yeah, I’m like a decade behind the times. I own it.

She smiles, “So, my mother says she likes going to the store because of all the stupid-silly signs, but they have them on the website, too. Sometimes the product description is just ‘we have no idea what this is!’ I picked up a bunch of random pens. Look at this one, it’s my favorite.”

The pen read “Nova Scotia Chicken Farmers.” With all respect to the chicken farmers of Nova Scotia, that is a hilarious pen to have. “That’s great! Man, I gotta check into that, I’ve got . . .” I checked my pen pocket “Two pens and a pencil just on me and I always need more.” “Here.” She hands me a Nova Scotia Chicken Farmer pen and a Juan 3:16. I really hope she had extras and didn’t just give me her favorite pen. I will keep it forever, though.

When we were finished with the piano, she wanted to pick up some groceries for a sort of thank-you dinner for everyone who helped. It was nice to just go shopping for food and relax. Neither of us have had the decade we wanted to, but I’m with Molly today, and she’s literally riding the cart around like it’s a skateboard. I like to think, just for the moment, we’re both free. We’ve got the simple task of getting some food, and we’ve got good company. It was one of the best experiences I had in years.

“So, what do you want to drink?” Molly and I are in the liquor department, and we just grabbed a thirty pack of beer for the party/her brother’s house.

“The beer will be fine.”

“No, didn’t they say something about some porter being here?”

“Seriously, Molly, this beer is fine. I’m usually a liquor guy anyway, and I don’t want you to buy me a bottle of liquor.”

She’s staring through my soul now. “What. Do. You. Want. To. Drink? You’ve all helped me so much over the last few weeks, especially you.”

This? This is the Molly I’ve always known. She is one of the most self-assured and stubborn people you’d ever meet, and I’m no slouch myself. Neither of us want something nice done for us, but I’m happy to accept if it makes her happy, plus I’d never win against her, even if I’m pretty sure we were only just playfully dug in. So I ended up with a bottle of Russian vodka because, well . . . Molly.

We had a nice dinner, I ran interference for the kids while everyone else did their thing. I figured she’d seen enough of me that day, and we were in a safe place. I’ve already mentioned Mark’s built like a small landing craft, and he literally keeps axes and maces spread around the house because, well . . . yeah.

I’m prepping the potatoes to go on the grill, but we’re running low on propane. I didn’t notice, I was enjoying my vodka, but apparently we were. So, there was a quick census of who was able to drive, and Mark tells me to guard the drinks with my life. This ends with a quick “Jawohl mein herr!” from me, followed by an embarrassed pause. “I am not okay to drive.”

All I hear as they’re walking away is, “Okay, John’s speaking German. I’m driving.”

She drove me home after dinner, and I don’t even remember what we were talking about until we got to my driveway. I’d ended up backing myself into a conversational corner, as I’d mentioned Glen. It was inevitable, he made me the person I am today, and I carry a physical reminder every day. I poked at the stainless steel around my left wrist, “If you’d noticed that at all during the day.”

“I did.”

“He’d spent 20 years in the Navy, so his wife pushed his funeral out so his friends in the fleet can get time off, but when I show up, it’s a guy who works in ‘Washington,’ I know better than to ask,”

“Probably smart.”

“his immediate family, two local friends, and me. Nobody from the Navy days.”

“That’s awful.”

“So there I am, spending my vacation at a funeral, and one of his friends offers to show me around town, since it’s the only time off I’d get that year.” I’m nearly in tears at this point, and I feel her hand on mine. I cover it with my other hand, both in recognition and because I don’t want it to stop. “He said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, he said ‘It was like having Glen around, but he didn’t know any of the landmarks.’”

I dropped the subject, we chatted a bit, and I told her, “You know, despite everything, I had a good time today.”

It was too dark to see her face in the car, but I heard her say, “I had a good time, too.” We hugged and I left her vehicle.

That’s the last I’ve heard from her. She has my number, and I’ve reached out, but I’ve heard nothing. Her brother doesn’t even get back to me anymore. I’m losing my mind, second guessing everything, looking for meaning, and just scrambling at the hope that this will continue. I get that she’s getting out of a marriage, I get that she needs time to settle into her new life. I’d happily wait for her to make a decision, but not knowing is killing me. That one day was everything I wish my life could be, and if I could feel that way every day for the rest of my life, I would.

I guess things don’t always end like you want them to. Or even have closure.

I don’t know if I love her, we barely know each other, but I’d give anything to find out.

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