Among the Spreads and Syrups

A glimpse into a life with anxiety, depression, ADD

How hard could it possibly be to choose jam? It’s so nicely organized on those grocery shelves: brands with like brands, cosseted jars of flavours and colours, and those bright lights. A two-second decision: you’re a grown woman so you already know what you like and don’t like, lemon spread and jellies yuck - really yuck. So it’s simple, it’s down to peach, apricot and the berries. But it’s hard to remember if E.D. Smith is good or not, and what about the store brand? And is it the apricot or the peach you prefer? Then the noises behind and all around begin to close in, get louder and more distracting as the diurnal static grows more obnoxious. The grocery shelf gets fuzzy and recedes from your vision as the sweat begins to bead and slide down the middle of your back. You’ve been standing in the preserves aisle for far too long and there is still an insurmountable list yet to accomplish, and somewhere in the store is your sweet and marginally patient husband who has expectations of what you will have accomplished when he comes up whistling with the cart. His expectations aren’t unfair or unreasonable; they’re rightfully founded on all the premises of your first years together. You know, you remember, those years when the other you piled it all on and took over the world: two jobs, university courses, social justice initiatives, this-old-house renovations, an ill parent, everyone else’s problems, everyone else’s friend’s problems. Oh yeah, there was no limit to what the other you could do, and you didn’t set any. You were the rock made of steel.

The working pragmatic part of your brain knows that what is happening in the ABC Grocery aisle is nuts and it tries to prompt to action the part that is keeping you standing there immobile, but it’s muscles are weak and it just doesn’t have the force required to make you move. Other you would know what to do. You think about ‘other you’ and you feel embarrassed, ashamed and small. You begin to hyper-focus on ‘other you’ and this makes the jam task and the rest of the list a heavy load of bricks on the pallet you’re already dragging behind you.

Your thoughts become more erratic, disjointed, your temperature elevates and the anxiety sets into a panic. “Pick something!” some part of your brain screams, but you can’t: your arms are lead and your brain can’t or won’t narrow in and focus a choice. You’re on the meds, the doctors notes are in: depression and anxiety nicely rounded out with a few letters ringing symptoms of ADD into your ear. You’re sitting in the therapy chair and blabbing and you’re swallowing the blue pill with your morning juice, so why is this still happening? When are you ever going to get better, feel happy - lighthearted even? When can you let go of this heavy anchor?  It all comes on, hard. Now you aren’t even thinking about the jam, it’s still there lurking, but everything else is crashing and burning in a firefight in your brain. Your stomach hurts, your back is soaking from the sweat. 
           
Other you would never let this happen, other you would say to this you, “Get on with it. There are people with way more to deal with than you.” Other you would say, “Seriously? Just make a decision to be better and get better.” Other you didn’t know shit. Other you didn’t appreciate what happens when a brain decides it’s not getting enough norepinephrine or serotonin or whatever. Other you couldn’t fathom what happens when a person discovers they’re not a rock made of steel – just a heap of water and meat and distracted emotion.
           
Then, it breaks as he comes whistling around the corner and quickly halts with a smile at the sight of you. He looks at your empty basket, the smile disappears and you know it’s coming. He asks, “Kath where’s all the stuff?” You look at him and hold out your empty hands like a child showing a parent “I washed them real good mom.” He’s dumbfounded. You’d think he’d be a little more than used to it by now, it’d been two years of this, but he isn’t and he still sees you as his beautiful capable rock made of steel. With frustration and disappointment he asks, “What have you been doing all this time?” You take account of the full cart he’s pushed into the ‘aisle of despair.’ He’s been busy, productive, the laden cart screams to you of his capacity, his sanity, and his wellness. It screams at you and your empty hands and broken mind. 

There is nothing left so you cry right there amongst the spreads and syrups. People scuttle quickly by embarrassed by your pink display of emotion, but you won’t know that until later when you ask if anyone saw. In the moment there is only the release of the tears and his comforting hold of you.