The Lantern Lighter.

I can't believe my birthday was a month ago. I had a pretty major depression crash a couple of days ago--my library books were late because of the fire, and the car flood ruined two of the books. I had to pay dreadful fines. Library problems have always made me absurdly anxious. Josh tried to take care of it, but I ended up having to go. My dejection (and this was merely a nudge off the edge after everything else) was such that I thought I'd never go back to the library, and a wonderful part of living here was ruined. I felt (those big warning words!) hopeless and worthless. We ordered replacement living room furniture two weeks ago, and the order status was still "shipping soon." The unpacking was endless, and I was accomplishing little. I was (and still am) terribly behind with my classes. I hadn't really felt up to reading until that day; I started reading The Library at Night (which I keep accidentally calling "Silence in the Library" after my favorite Dr. Who episode) again and taking notes on it. Then, I figured I ought to take the book back (even though Josh had renewed it) and have a clean record.

I walked back from the library, still not speaking, one heel bleeding from the now too small flats I bought while I was pregnant. I sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. Oliver was asleep. Josh waited a bit and then sat with me.

"Are you feeling self-destructive at all? I sense that you are on the edge."

I tilted my head without looking at him. Eventually, I started mentioning my various miseries.

"I wish we had a living room. I have so much work to do and no drive to do it."

"You have to be yourself," he said. "I know it's hard, but we can't be good parents if we're not people. And you need to sit outside and read or write in your journal before you work. Then, you'll be ready."

"I took the book back." I still wouldn't look up.

"You didn't have to do that. Did you do that because you were feeling self-destructive?"

Pause.

"That's what I would have done," he continued. "I would have said, 'Oh yeah, I'm enjoying this so much that I'll just take it back!'"

And I laughed. He somehow combined the gentle, the funny, the empathetic, and the true.

"You should just go back and check it out again," he said.

"I doubt I'll go back."

"Well, there's no reason for that. A lot of crap happened all at once. It wasn't your fault. I forbid you not to go back."

I laughed again (that tight plaster of submission to shadow crackling with my slight movements).

"I'm not really good at anything--working, writing, being a mom, making a home..."

Instead of chortling, he seemed to get what I meant--that thin spread of self. He pointed out specific changes he loved in the house and specific evidences of Oliver's joy.

Then, he bandaged my heel, got my sage green robe out of the dryer, and brought  my two of those peanut butter chocolate cookies and a tiny Dr. Pepper--all this without my asking (I wasn't well enough to ask or imagine). By then, I'd ordered my own copy of The Library at Night (I love it, and I think Josh will love it), picked up Madeleine L'Engle's A Circle of Quiet, and began reading. Then, I could ask Josh to call about the furniture. It will come on August 6--a long time, but I feel better knowing.

Josh couldn't have helped me in a better way. I went from utter, paralyzed despair to feeling just fine, to being able to move, speak, and try. I am grateful.