Depression is Easy

It's interesting to me how raw and fresh the memories of the summer of 2008 are. You would think that several years later I could think about it and not feel like everything had happened only days ago. This summer will be 6 years, so not a big milestone or anything, but it still stands out to me I guess.

Last night I was thinking of a very clear memory I had of the house. I think it had to have been the summer before the flood, because in the memory my room was painted blue, and I only had those walls for about a year. My family has gone to the GoodGuys car show every year since it has come to Iowa, and the summer of '07 was no different. We either had the red '57 Chevy at that time or the big Ford, I can't remember. I do remember coming home after a long, hot Saturday at the show. The air in the house was on and I can feel the cool blast of air on my skin as the door opened, and almost smell the specific scent that the air conditioner gave the house. I went straight to my room and laid down on my mattress which happened to be on the floor at the time; I was in-between bed frames. On my stomach with my face close to the air vent I took a nap. I'm not sure why this one memory sticks out in my mind, maybe just because it took place during the summer. Fast-forward roughly one year and you would find me sitting at the top of the three steps that led down to my parents bedroom. The floor had been stripped, so I was sitting on bare wood and was staring at studs and framing all around me. Where once had stood my home was now just an empty shell. I remember a group of family and friends were standing a little in front of me marveling at the fact that some three or four layers of wall paper had survived not one, but three floods. As I sat on the steps, I think for the first time the gravity of the situation hit me. I was picking at remnants of drywall and throwing them on the floor when my brother-in-law came over to me. Before the flood, before that summer, Wade had been just my sister's husband, but that summer he became my brother. I don't remember what he said to me but I know that it helped. Another defining memory.

I try to be thankful for the home we have now. We have been blessed in so many ways. But all I have to do is close my eyes and I can see the house. I can see the driveway where I fell the first time I rode a bike. I can see the front yard where we had several garage sales. I can see the garden that my mother nurtured and that flourished every spring and summer. I can see the patio where we would have family dinners when the weather was nice. I remember the time an entire meal was ruined because of some birds flying over. I see the blue kitchen and the pale yellow dining room. I see our western themed bathroom and my jungle themed bedroom. I see all of the good times and all of my memories. And then I drive past the empty lot and my heart breaks inside. I know where the house stood down to the last room, but anyone who drives by will only see grass and some trees. I know exactly where the carving is on the tree that was next to the patio, and anyone else who should happen upon that tree wouldn't see it. No one knows that lives were lived there and that memories were made. Not just mine, but from the father's childhood too. I wonder how many people who used to drive by the house see the emptiness now and can't remember what color that house on the corner was- blue. No one will know, no one will remember.

And that's why I think depression is easy. It's comfortable. It's easy to fall into the darkness and not fight every day. It's hard to work against the pull but it's easy to sink into the darkness and let it overwhelm you. I can't remember how to be happy. It's a thing that I have to fight to be. I have to try to be happy and joyful. Thinking about the house is easy. It's comfortable to think of the memories. It's difficult to remember the situation for what it was and to realize that what happened was far better for my family than many other options.