Emma - I Can't Do This Again

I talked to Emma a couple of days ago. She was beside herself, weeping, sobbing into the telephone. The medication that had helped her rise above her disabling depression has pooped out - that's an official psychiatric term, actually - on her. Her conclusion: "I'll never be happy again. I'll never have friends here. I felt so normal for a while, you know? But now even this miracle drug has stopped working so I know I'll never feel normal again."

I was immediately grateful for Dr. Yeow, who has worked with me diligently over the years to get the blend of medications just right (so far...who knows what could happen tomorrow?). I was grateful to Dr. A. for hammering away at me to get me to see that the extremes I saw weren't really that extreme, teaching me to think more rationally.

All the "nevers" I heard made me hurt for Emma. That conversation went on for an hour and a half and when we said good-bye, I'm not sure she was feeling any better.

I called her again yesterday afternoon. She wasn't hysterical anymore. Instead, her voice had taken the flat, dead properties it had when she has reached the bottom of her depression and is there, submerged in filthy water and muck with no intention of trying to get out.

I asked her if she had tried calling her psychiatrist again.

She said no, she'd already called and left a message once. Obviously it wouldn't do any good to call him again.

Obviously.

I asked her what she's been doing.

"Sleeping a lot. Watching TV and doing crosswords."

"So basically, you're at the point where you were when I came to see you for Christmas." (See Cheesehead Christmas, 2007.)

"Yeah, pretty much."

At this point, I didn't have anything to say because when I get to this point with Emma, I know there's nothing I can say to help her. And I realized something yesterday. It's not my job or responsibility to make sure that Emma's okay. She can do that to a certain extent, plus she has Sven around. It's not my job, I told myself, and I didn't feel a bit guilty about it. I can't do this again. I can't go through the whole drama of the Cheesehead business anymore.

I performed my last act of service. I know her psychiatrist's name, looked him up on Google, and left a message on his office voice mail. Knowing Emma from previous episodes, she's almost too depressed to commit suicide. She'll just stay stuck in the deep muck where she's living right now until somebody else pulls her out of it. Somebody who's not me.

From everything Emma's told me about him, he sounds like a responsive guy and I can only think that Emma did not push the urgency of her situation or that he had an emergency that required a great deal of his time.

But me? I'm out of this. The Dr. Becs shingle has been taken in for good.

This morning as I was writing in my journal, drinking my coffee, hanging out with the cats, I felt this unfolding in my heart. The cats were sleeping. Someone was running a power washer. The birds were chirping. The coffee was hot and delicious and it's a beautiful day.

This is contentment, I thought, so hard-won, so dearly purchased. I'm not going to risk it for anyone else, especially when I know the background of the story. I'm 58. I was miserable for so, so long. I had days when I'd lay in bed and cry all day, for no specific reasons. Now I'll lay in bed for a couple of hours just to cuddle with Dylan or rejoice in the cool weather and to enjoy the fluffiness of my comforter and the sunlight on the walls. (Usually accompanied with the thought, ha, ha! No one can get me out of bed and no one can make me feel guilty for enjoying it, ha, ha!)

I suppose it all boils down to this. I've been thinking this for a while, but now it has bubbled up to the top of my brain.

I have not just taken down my shingle. I am prepared to let Emma go. I may already have done that by contacting her shrink, but I'm not the captain of Emma's soul and I'm not prepared to go down with that ship.