The dark cloud found me that morning. Consumed by anxiety, I threw myself onto the sofa, pulled the blanket over my head, and closed my eyes to the world.
Oddly feeling weightless and fatigued, I meandered to the bathhouse for a shower, hoping that would help. I breathed, I argued, bargained, and prayed. At least I felt clean.
It was nearly ten O’clock when I departed my home. I strung on another late work day into my week, but I wore that string of black pearls with little guilt. I set up my workstation and completed a task before being summoned to the airport. Ben was finally coming home.
With low energy, I greeted my husband and drove back to work. We hugged and kissed and he drove off. I slugged my way back to the office feeling tired, empty, and numb.
My attempt at productivity that afternoon proved futile. I had to reset, and I knew what to do.
I grabbed my binoculars, my shades, and my tunes (but I didn’t listen to them). I let the flow of traffic set the mood.
Strolling up Main Street, I felt weightless even more, like outside of myself. I arrived at the riverside. As I stood at the water’s edge, the birds flew by and I studied them. I began my checklist as I usually do, then united myself with a familiar dirt path. Immersed in the forest, I tried to breathe my demons away, but they wouldn’t move. I continued.
On my route, I heard bird calls in the brush. I saw a large, brown fledgling begging for lunch. Its parents arrived, but to my surprise their offspring doubled them in size.
It was a baby cowbird that had been laid in its foster parents’ nest. It’s not the vireos’ fault, they only did what they knew best.
At that moment it clicked. I saw my feelings manifested in an avian play. I couldn’t let the invader win the day.
Depression is like a cowbird, I told my friend. When you feed it, it thrives and grows, killing the chicks of joy nested in your head.
Lesson learned, don’t feed the cowbird.
Jun 30, 2022
Jun 30, 2022 at 6:50 PM UTC
The dark cloud found me that morning. Consumed by anxiety, I threw myself onto the sofa, pulled the blanket over my head, and closed my eyes to the world.
Oddly feeling weightless and fatigued, I meandered to the bathhouse for a shower, hoping that would help. I breathed, I argued, bargained, and prayed. At least I felt clean.
It was nearly ten O’clock when I departed my home. I strung on another late work day into my week, but I wore that string of black pearls with little guilt. I set up my workstation and completed a task before being summoned to the airport. Ben was finally coming home.
With low energy, I greeted my husband and drove back to work. We hugged and kissed and he drove off. I slugged my way back to the office feeling tired, empty, and numb.
My attempt at productivity that afternoon proved futile. I had to reset, and I knew what to do.
I grabbed my binoculars, my shades, and my tunes (but I didn’t listen to them). I let the flow of traffic set the mood.
Strolling up Main Street, I felt weightless even more, like outside of myself. I arrived at the riverside. As I stood at the water’s edge, the birds flew by and I studied them. I began my checklist as I usually do, then united myself with a familiar dirt path. Immersed in the forest, I tried to breathe my demons away, but they wouldn’t move. I continued.
On my route, I heard bird calls in the brush. I saw a large, brown fledgling begging for lunch. Its parents arrived, but to my surprise their offspring doubled them in size.
It was a baby cowbird that had been laid in its foster parents’ nest. It’s not the vireos’ fault, they only did what they knew best.
At that moment it clicked. I saw my feelings manifested in an avian play. I couldn’t let the invader win the day.
Depression is like a cowbird, I told my friend. When you feed it, it thrives and grows, killing the chicks of joy nested in your head.
Lesson learned, don’t feed the cowbird.
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