I just came close to having a meltdown, but I cleaned the bathroom instead.

It’s 1:31pm on the second full day of the November Nor’Easter. The dogs and I just got back from a walk up the street to check the water levels, and the neighborhood is still basically cut off from the rest of the world. Unless you have a truck as large as a Ford F350 or some sort of floating transportation, you aren’t going anywhere. And I have neither.

Right now we’re all three cozied up on the couch, me smushed up on the left side with my laptop, LolliPop cuddled in the middle and Daisy sprawled out snoring on the right. Daisy has the majority of space and I’d like to slide her over a bit, but you really just don’t mess with Daisy when she sleeps. She’s an adorable, loving and gentle beagle, but there’s a part of her that will forever remain an obese 85-pound toss-off to animal control, and she gets a little wound up when she’s pulled at or startled. She won’t hurt me, but it’s just not fair to her. So I’m crammed in the corner and my left elbow pokes into the pillow while I type, and I utilize the benefits of yoga every time I reach over to the table to grab my coffee, but all in all we’re good.

Not so about 3 hours ago. Unable to go to work and stuck at home without power, I took a short nap to compensate for being up at 5am. I woke an hour or so later to the sound of rain and wind and the unmistakable dark cloud over my head that had nothing to do with the weather. I haven’t felt that bitch, depression, since I decided back in 2006 that she was a habit that needed kicking. Sad, lonely, hopeless, overwhelmed at the little things, and completely without basis, she really is a bitch. If you’ve ever lived with her, you know you think so too. I don’t know what made her think she could bebop on in here today and spend some time with me, but I guess the past few days without sun, a disorganized house, a list as long as my arm of things that need doing before I move, and the isolation permeating the air off Shore Drive today all spelled WELCOME on the emotional doormat.

There was a time I would have curled myself in a ball under my covers and spent the afternoon with her, maybe even offered her a few glasses of wine or an entire box of mac and cheese, let her put her feet up, make herself at home. But I made up my mind that this sort of feeling ~ not the everyday blues or frustrations or irritations rooted in a still confident sense of self ~ but this “oh I suck, none of this will ever work out, my dogs are neglected, I will never get everything done, my photos suck, my writing sucks” sort of feeling is no longer allowed to be my reality, and I meant it. So I cleaned the bathroom, which I hate. Because it such a cragmire of dog hair and me hair and makeup and grime and it seems, well, hopeless, and useless and futile. I cleaned it because I can no longer nap unless I’m really tired, and I cleaned it because I figured if I could kick some powder room ass of hopeless and useless and futile I’ll have a bright, shiny, sparkling bathroom and a bright, shiny sparkling attitude to go along with it.

I’ve enjoyed living alone and I would rather be by myself than to be living with a guy that isn’t emotionally available or on his game, but there are times, really, when a hug would do what Facebook and cell phones texts and emails just can’t. (To be honest, I’m not sure where that came from, but because it came out stream-of-consciousness style, I’ll let it stand. A little bitta pity at this party, maybe? Hey, there’s still plenty of time and plenty of opportunity). Truth is, I have close friends and a family who is always, always available when I need them, but since right now I’m a little burned out on technology and I’m feeling crabby as hell, cleaning that bathroom is going to have to do. I’m polishing the mirror when I stop and realize that I’m looking, really hard, deep down into my own eyes, and I feel something within them travel down through the inside of my body to the base of my feet, latch on, and come flying back up, pulling me erect and upright in the process. Ground yourself, it says. Ground yourself.

By nature, I am at my best in dry, arid places. Right here, right now, I’m surrounded by water, and I feel like I’m drowning. But I’m not. I’m not. And I’m not hopeless, or sad, or even lonely.

Last night the edges of our neighborhood began to flood. Several of us gathered over at the house across the street and spent the the next few hours hanging out by candlelight, and for a good portion of the evening we stood around the piano and sang old Elton John songs. At one point I looked out the window at the street below and all I could see was total darkness. Murky black emptiness. Nothingness. But I knew, even if I couldn’t see it, that there was something beyond that abyss. And where I was, there was warmth, and music, and laughter and smiles and candlelight.

Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me.

For sure.