I Punched a Hole in My Wall

I punched a hole in my wall last night.

Ok, really it’s an indent. Well, three intents.  It’s three indents where the knuckles of my left jab met the drywall.

I didn’t go to yoga today because my hand hurts. It hurts and it’s swollen. And a little bruised.

My hand matches my ego.

Jobless, seemingly unhireable and clinically depressed. It’s good times. I live by myself which makes it's easy for me to fall down a depression hole. ( I promise, this is not all gonna be a super downer, stick with me)  I spent the evening brooding on everything I am not and everything I have done wrong. The energy in me kept building and needed to go somewhere. Pacing across my apartment while trying to “change my language” was only making me angrier.

I walked toward the front of my apartment, up to my orange chair under the front window, then to the back, stopped by my easel and latest canvas. Back and forth. Chair, canvas, chair canvas, chair canvas, chair… on my way back to the canvas I banked to the right, toward the hallway. I was about to enter the threshold when I felt my left arm cock back and my fingers chamber into my palm. My shoulder whipped and in seconds my hand contacted with the blue/grey paint on my wall and pushed in the drywall enough for a noticeable shadow to fall in the crevasses.  I had created a trinity of indents that was going to take a trip to Home Depot and some fresh paint to mend. sigh.

I’m not gonna lie, I felt better.

(If you have not felt the sweet release of hitting something as hard as you can, I’m telling you,  sign up for a kickboxing class ASAP. It will be the most cathartic shit you will E-ver do.)

The jab released my overflow of emotion, but my negative thoughts were still brimming. I plopped myself on the couch and pouted. I cried, I regrouped, I looked at Reddit and pretty much repeated that for the remainder of the evening. ( I know I said it wasn't all gonna be a super downer. You’re thinking I’m a lier, but here's where it gets better!)

Around 11, my Sister, Barb, called. She called about navigating some social media stuff, but we ended up taking for like two hours. Kids, social life, parenting, yoga & a skosh of gossip because, let’s be honest, we all enjoy it. Not one mention of my depression the entire time. When I hung up with her at 1 am , I felt so much better.

Emotionally I mean. My hand was throbbing.  

My repeating thoughts stopped. I felt connected and loved, useful even.

Lunarbaboon by Christopher Grady

I’m putting this story out there, for those who don't know how to talk to a friend with depression. You see them struggling and want to say something that will make a real difference.  I gotta tell ya...I don't know what that something is either.

What I do know is that, for me, sometimes the best therapy is just to bullshit about the stuff going on in day to day life. To be reminded that you are an active part of someone else's story by being actively included in their story.

“Ya, now do you see the button with three dots, click that. Ok, Now go to...”

“I remember the time you did the same for me, don't you remember when…”

“Ya, teenagers are just the terrible human beings...”

“OMG, she’s crazy!”

Don’t think in terms of connection being profound and life changing every time. Sometimes all someone needs is A connection. Tell them about your day, or the thing your kid did or the fart that escaped in an airplane that, though silent, had enough stank to take down a rhino….

I’m telling you, it matters.

“The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.”  - John Kabat-Zinn