*warning: contains a wee bit of strong language and nuts
Contrary to popular belief, people with depression don’t always drag themselves around like Eeyore: grey, gloomy and expecting the worst as a matter of course.
There are some of us who get irritable when meds or life need tweaking. I’m talking here about muttering under the breath, head shaking and the occasional “Am I the only person in this house who knows how to change a toilet roll” outburst kind of irritability. Yes, I know, everyone feels that way, now and then…except, of course, for the folk who have never changed a toilet roll in their entire lives.
Let me give you an example of the difference. The other week I was having one of those days of compounding “oh you’ve got to be kidding” events. You know what I mean, take the last shred of toilet paper (what is it with toilet paper today?) and reach into the cupboard under the sink only to find no one refilled it after grabbing the last one. And the main supply cupboard downstairs only has one roll in it because whoever took the rest didn’t say anything because, after all, they didn’t take the last one, right?
So, I was at Country Grocer after staggering through a morning of those sort of domino switchbacks starting with just enough milk to cover the bottom of the jug and ending
with, you guessed it, the inadequate shred on the last cardboard roll. My jaw muscles were aching from the effort of not grinding my teeth till they looked like they belonged in the mouth of an 80 year old Inuit leather worker…
My luck continued with small events like being blindsided by some tall guy’s backpack in the coffee aisle; repeatedly dodging a sweet old couple holding Tim Conway drag races around the freezer section into the canned fruits and vegetables aisle…There was a free range 5 year old with 
one of those mini carts and a 3 year old with an excimer laser shriek boring a hole into my inner ear. As I approached the check-out a young man came charging out of nowhere to slip into the line in front of me with a whoop of triumph.
I was a rock. I kept my mind on what I needed to do and when I had to be home in order to let one of the girls know what to cook for dinner before I left for work.
As I nosed the van out of the parking space and through the next row I looked to the right and heard a screech of tires on my left. I looked to my left to see a small car that had not been there when I’d checked that way before starting out…The driver was waving his hands in that exasperated way men get and I could see his lips clearly form the words…”are you fucking blind or crazy, lady”…I put my hands up to indicate he could proceed. Then he did it. He made the crazy motion with his fingers at his head and formed, quite clearly again, the word that pretty much seals the deal for every woman I know.
Worked for me. The hand I was holding in the go ahead gesture began to shake and next thing I knew there was a howler monkey inside me that would no
longer be denied. I began shouting a string of profanities, starting with “NO, FUCK YOU…NO, REALLY, FUCK YOU….” and generally disintegrated from there…one hand waving the middle finger salute while the other was struggling to undo my seat belt so I could climb over the steering wheel to claw at the front windshield to get at this guy.
While I was still throwing myself at the door trying to figure out how to get out, the coward put his head down, and scuttled past as fast as his little toyota could go. It was like an urban parody of the ape scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
It took a few hours for the adrenalin to finally filter out of my system and I had a distinct knuckle-dragging swagger for the remainder of the day. It is very hard to describe for someone who hasn’t spent time with the black dog breathing down their neck but I knew that blazing fury was me finally defending myself. More than that, it meant, finally, I knew I was actually worth fighting for.
So next time you’re in a parking lot, be careful who you call a crazy old lady…you might just catch one spoiling for a fight.
