A Clean Slate

I painted one of our bathrooms today. Just a little bathroom, not even a powder bath (no sink); it barely took two hours. But I still feel accomplished, excited, renewed.

I love to paint. You can take a place that looks drab, old, murky, and turn it into something completely new. I love starting with just the vision of what it could be--this new place. You think about colors, patterns, maybe what decorations you could add. Then, after taping (I really hate taping), you start to transform. To me, half the fun is stopping in the middle, checking my progress; like watching a sunset slowly slide into the horizon, I can watch the old walls slowly disappear and the new room begin to take form.

Sure, some of it is the high from the paint fumes. And some of it is the zen-like groove I get: dip the roller, make some Xs, roll to blend sideways, then finish it all with a vertical sweep to smooth the wall. Repeat. But, mostly, it's the possibility. I can turn this place into anything I want. And, hey, if I don't like it, I can just start again!

I think part of me likes this about teaching, as well. Each new school year is like a room I've just painted. It's bright, fresh, new; now, what do I want to do with it? Each school year starts out with the possibilities of a great class, of hilarious moments, of teaching kids something that didn't think they would ever learn. Each year I have new techniques, new ideas, different plans for how I want to change things up. I can't imagine looking around at the same, boring walls each year, saying the same speeches, doing lessons the same way. Each year I have to pick out a bright color, a bolder way of looking at things, a different game plan that will fit with this group of kids. Like painting, teaching has a way of making the old new, of wiping out the bad or out-of-style decor from before, and giving me hope of what could be.

Sometimes, a project requires sanding, spackle, sanding some more, maybe even replacing some of the wood. Sometimes, a class requires breaking bad habits, molding better behaviors, maybe even completely changing a kid's perspective on his/her own way of maneuvering through life. But when you see the finished product, when you hear someone else say, "Oh, my, what a change," it's always worth the extra elbow grease in the end.

My father-in-law just got me a really cool present (a Miguel Cabrera plaque!), as a thank you for work I've done on the family cabin--painting being one of the jobs I've personally enjoyed the most. I also just got a thank you note from a former student, a girl I've followed from the time she entered my classroom at age 6 until her graduation, this past June. The plaque and the thank you note are sitting together, front and center on my desk in the living room, a reminder of how others can be affected by what I do. But in both cases, the thanks aren't necessary. The reward is sitting back and looking with pride at a job well done, at how a little paint can make a difference one stroke at a time.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Depression can feel like an old, comfortable lover. You don't want to see this guy. But he comes around and--as much as you avert your eyes, walk in the opposite direction, try to put obstacles in his way--you can feel him coming for you.

He follows close behind you for days; he whispers into your neck, "You know, it will feel so good."

And it can. Depression can lay upon you, cover you with its dark, fleecy blanket, pull you deep into its nothingness. If you've never had true depression--that deep pit of sadness for no particular reason--then you may not know how cozy it can be.

Like the old lover, depression calls to you, "Come back to bed. Just one more hour won't hurt anyone." The curve of the pillow beneath your head, the softness of the covers around your neck. The mattress swallows all that ails you: that list that never gets finished, the extra bit of work you brought home, that frustrating behavior you can't cure for your children, the laundry, the bills, the little snippy words that people have said that settled upon your heart.

In your life, you can make a commitment to stay away from depression, just like you would avoid that old lover in your marriage. You take your medication, practice positive thoughts, list all the reasons to be happy; the way you would delete the old lover's emails, walk away from him in a store, tell him "Not interested," and try to move on.

But the draw is always there. Depression is like the old lover who lurks behind corners; you can see his eye peering at you from behind a cupboard, the reflection of his face in the corner of the bathroom mirror. You open a book, and there's a picture of the two of you together, snuggled, joined as one. But the next page has your beautiful family, your husband, your children, and you know I will not go there. I will not let you pull me in; I will not fall into your chasm.

Sometimes, though, you cannot resist. Your shoulders get heavy, your feet are made of lead, your legs won't move; your body is working against you, pushing you into the bed. The lover folds his arms around you, and all you can remember is the sweet taste in your mouth, the satiny feel of his skin against yours, how you fit against one another like two pieces of the same puzzle. You relish in the gloom, look at the world through gray colored glasses, carry depression in your pocket to take out and rub between your fingers until you can get back into your bed. The whole world seems different--the opposite of when you're falling in love--as though each person, each encounter, is specifically designed against you. Song lyrics have new meaning; your children's actions, your husband's words, your boss's agendas--they're all meant to push you farther into the hole. You sink down, down, feeling it press upon you, and nothing about you wants to fight it anymore.

There are people for whom depression wins. Suicide. Accidental overdose. Divorce. Child abuse. Grumpy bitches who bite your head off for the least little thing.

I, however, will not be one of those people. I will turn around, confront the old lover face-to-face. I will tell him off, remind him of all the reasons he is wrong for me. I'll punch him if I need to. I will climb from the tomb of sadness, dig my fingers deep into the mud and pull myself up the sides. I will hug my children, read them stories, play games with them. I will tease my teenager and listen to her stories of what middle school is really like. I will slide my arm across the bed in the night and find my husband's arm--hold tight--and stay afloat. I will do ridiculous dances with my students in my classroom, and find ways to put my own spin on the top-down directions for how I'm supposed to teach. I will find the joy in the day.

Depression, you had your chance with me. We are never, ever, ever getting back together. Like, ever.