It’s been two weeks no writing. Perfect recipe for three nights ago, sitting fully-clothed at the edge of the tub (where the water doesn’t drain, next to the toilet that won’t flush) saying incoherent things to Anthony through snot and tears about how maybe I’d just move to Canada. Something about either moving to Canada or drowning in the tub.
Canada is really close to Michigan. And, I assume, better than drowning.
Instead, the next day, still puffy-eyed and drooling from depression, Anthony dragged me to a concert in Detroit. I’ve chosen my terms carefully here: by “dragged” I mean we had a fight, and by “concert” I mean hardcore metal show he had tickets for. (Also there’s “Detroit”: zombie apocalypse city south of here.)
The thing about metal is it’s not my scene. Also, I was in crisis-mode. Crisis mode mixed with a bunch of white dudes knocking into each other’s bodies and screaming seemed–even in my super sad synapse-limited brain space–like a bad idea. Also, in my sad brain space, it seemed my metal head husband was being insensitive.
Granted, he said we shouldn’t go. But between a Detroit show I didn’t want to see and our stinky Pontiac house that I don’t want to live in, even my sick mind knew there was no right answer for the night. So we went.
Message to my former psychiatrist: Hubby’s music works better than Paxil. It was so loud, so intense, so mind-altering sound I felt like I couldn’t think straight. Which is absolutely perfect, because I had been consistently thinking straight down. But something about the noise made me think sideways. Different. Colors.
And now I’m here. Breathing. Not a Canadian. We both left the show with this weird calm. Like the dull hum that remained in our eardrums was somehow the secret to everything. The first reassurance in weeks.
We are going to find a place. I am going to find a job. Anthony’s art is already evolving into something new.
And I need to remember to write myself every once and a while.
my husband got art school and all I got's this stupid blog 