I’ve felt it building for a few days, that heaviness in my chest that signals an oncoming depressive episode. It hit yesterday. Brian took over with Clara Jane while I took to bed with my knitting and the first season of Flight of the Concords. It’s hard to feel bad while watching She’s So Hot. It’s got a sweet M.I.A. vibe I like.  I know, I’m two-five years behind on everything, and that’s not helping the depression so let’s pretend I’m relevant and leave it at that. Boom King!

Before I forget, I’m bolding links from now on, since this damn template doesn’t show links and I’m too picky to find one that does.

Anyway, I drug myself out of bed around 10 PM last night because I figure I might as well completely screw up my sleep patterns while battling some mild mental illness. I figured since the depression was of the numbing variety, as opposed to the uncontrollable weeping and rage type, I’d be safe to watch the We Are One concert.  Right. Even at my most well-adjusted, nothing makes me cry like music. U2, performing “Pride”? On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial? The day before MLK Day, and two days before we get President Obama? Yeah. I cried and cried and cried until I’m pretty sure tears were coming out of the ricotta cheese-filled horn on my head. Follow it with Pete Seeger, his grandson, and Springsteen, doing every verse of “This Land is Your Land” with Pete singing the last three verses (including my beloved fourth verse)? You might as well drain every fluid out of my head. The look of joy on ol’ Pete’s face makes my heart soar.

While watching the concert, I realized something. I don’t think it’s so much that I’ve had a building depression. I think my brain forced my emotions into hibernation to prepare for this week.  Because as I watched, with the tears and sobbing, all I could think was, “It’s happening. Oh my God. It’s finally happening. Thank God, it’s here.”

I feel things rather strongly. Understatement of my life, I know. As wonderful as it feels, I don’t know how I’m going to move through this part of history without sobbing myself to death.

In the midst of all this last night, my plan for National Day of Service fell through. I was going to cook for the women’s shelter again, but I got an email last night that there had been some scheduling confusion. Two families had delivered dinner on the same night, so the residents had a full meal planned for tonight. I had a nanosecond of thinking, “Well that’s just great. Money’s tight, and here I’ve spent money to feed 20 people for nothing,” before I got the fuck over myself and realized what an awesome “problem” this is: a homeless shelter with an overabundance of food! Most of my supplies were freezer-friendly, so I stashed what I could. I’ll be mostly set when my next cooking date rolls around in March. We’ll survive without that $50 until payday, with a roof over our warm house, plenty of food and clothes, 10 gallons of gas in the tank, running water, a couple of smelly dog, a cranky cat, and a loud little girl.

Clara Jane had the day off school, and I’d planned on using our time at the shelter as a means of talking about MLK’s idea and beliefs, so I had to scramble for new good deeds. Around 11 PM last night I remembered that Oregon Trail is doing a food drive.  I got a big, reusable shopping bag and filled it with everything in my pantry that I know I won’t need before payday.

This morning we went to story time at the bookstore, where I grabbed the last copy of Martin’s Big Words. While Clara Jane worked on her craft, a mom and her two kids came in, looking for a copy of the book. Since I grabbed it on a whim and she had it written on a list, I thought she deserved it more than me. Lo and behold, the story time lady did a check, even though she thought they only had the one copy left, and she found two more. One for me, and one for the next person who walked in, asking about the book, right after the two copies were found.

I think it’s a book that wants to be read.

We went to lunch, and to the coffee house to drop off the food. I had an Americano, visited with my favorite pregnant barista, and Clara Jane and I played some fierce Snakes and Ladders. As we left, I remembered the two big bags of old baby blankets in the back of my truck. I’ve been meaning to take them to the Humane Society for weeks. Hell, why not today? It wasn’t the full haul I wanted to donate, but every little bit, right?  We made our gift, loved some kitties and puppies (and resisted the urge to bring Harley home with us), and visited with Courtney’s ma before coming home to read.

I’ll admit, I’ve sheltered Clara Jane from all things related to death and dying. Much of my panic and anxiety issues have been linked to a traumatic death in my family when I was younger than she is now. I have no idea how to broach it with her, especially since she tends to be on the anxious side, too. But today, I read the book to her.

The next to last page: “On his second day there, he was shot. He died.”

The last page: “His big words are alive for us today.”

All read while I sobbed and sobbed, making Clara Jane nervous enough to change the subject to her fingernails.

Once I got my shit together, I told her that tomorrow’s also a special day because Barack Obama will be our president. Yes, we’ve brainwashed her well, because she got really excited. I told her that were it not for Dr. King, Obama would not be president.

For the first time in her life, I explained racial differences to my daughter. Is she old enough to grasp that we can’t appreciate amazing things that happen if we don’t know the tribulations and the people who sacrificed that paved the way? I don’t know. But I think something clicked.

Rosa Parks and the bus baffled her. “But people can sit anywhere they want on the bus! Anyone can!” The idea that any one person would be singled out was completely foreign to her.

Maybe we’ve done something right.

So tomorrow, she goes back to school. I’ll be home, glued to the coverage, on the phone with my doctor, trying to get a Klonopin drip. I’m hoping!