The Thrill of the Chase

Peatuk's favorite game these days is a very simple form of, "chase." Tag. Gotcha. He loves when either me or his father threaten to "get him," and then gleefully grab him and pick him up, only to set him down again so he can run away... as fast as his hands and knees can carry him. (Which is surprisingly fast).

Lately, I know when he wants to play this game because of the signs he gives. First, he will come up to me and make sure he has my attention. He either climbs into my lap or pulls on my leg. Then, he will edge slowly away, looking back at me with obvious anticipation. He wont go too far until he is sure that I am engaged in the game. Once I pick him up the first time, it is on... and he is free to move about the room without looking back, sure that I will be coming after him.

All of this makes me think about the game. You know the one I am talking about. The one that everyone seems to think is about sex or relationships or even love, but is really just a simple game of catch and release. The one that people have been telling me is a fabricated thing that young boys and girls learn from society. The one that is unnatural, and needs to be done away with through direct, honest communication.

Seeing my young boy, only 11 months old, play at flirting so well and loving the thrill of being chased makes me realize that I was wrong. It is a completely natural desire to want to be chased. To lock in another person's interest and then turn away. To see how far they will go for you. To let yourself be caught and held and expect to be released again. Expect to remain free while constantly letting yourself be confined. It is fun. It is exhilarating. It is one of the most basic social interactions we have.

As we get older it gets more complicated. There are more layers. More signs and cues. More risk. But ultimately, it is the same game that we played from the moment we could crawl. Please! Come get me! Bring me back to safety. Let me know how far I can go. Let me know you are still there. That you still want me. Think of me. Love me.

All that being said, I think I like the simple version of the game better. Once the game gets out of a single room, a single night, a single moment, it becomes too involved for me. For now I will just play tag with my son and relish in the fact that I get to cuddle with my love, no games required, whenever I want.

When a Cyclothymic Girl Can't Be Depressed

While I was pregnant with Peatuk, I secretly passed the hours researching postpartum depression and, even more secretly, postpartum psychosis. Deep down, a part of me was terrified that I would snap under the pressure of motherhood. After all, isn't the women with a history of depression or bipolar that usually suffer from the more extreme cases of postpartum depression? Wasn't I an ideal candidate?

Sometimes, it is still difficult to separate me from my 20 year old self. I forget all of the work I have done and I see myself as one day away from the hospital, doctors deciding how many rights I have the capability of exercising. I see myself spiraling in drugs and alcohol, ending up on another continent. It isn't impossible. I have been there before.

During my mid-late twenties, I learned to control my depression, and with the controlled depression, the mania came less often. Diet. Exercise. Journals. Honest discussions with friends. Marathons. Meaningful work. All of that, combined with the natural calming of adult chemistry, allowed me to function in a way I didn't imagine possible when I was 20.

But, my highs and lows never went away. I managed them. I controlled them. I made space for them in my life and worked through them. By accepting them, I was able to loosen their control over me and they became much less extreme. Unless I was drinking. At 29 I still had shameful bouts of bad decision making. Thrilling. I had no desire to control them. But once or twice a year, for a weekend. A girl can live with that...

The point is that I was not, 'cured.' I simply found a way to control the ebb and flow of emotion within me. I found a pressure valve. I found control.

I was afraid that once I lost that control, I would face a really sudden, deep snap that I might not recover from.

During the past year, my control has been taken to the limits. I have no time to be depressed. As a mother, I cannot simply, 'take to bed' for a weekend. There has been no time to write, no time to run, and my diet has been not, 'bad' (whatever that is) but a lot further from my control than it used to be.

I find that I cannot wallow in melancholy. Even if I had the time and space, I have this constantly joyful little being giving me raspberries, yammering away about how much he loves bananas, and learning how to wave. Oh, and giggling. Laughing so hard and completely that... it is impossible to stay in my depression.

I was afraid that without a valve- without indulging in bouts of regular depression, I would fly or I would fall. I haven't though. Instead, it is as if my life is at a constant, even state. I find I am happy, or sad, but I do not have the time to question these emotions and so I do not have the time to fully feel them or fall into the high and low states that I recognize as joy and sadness.

It is strange. Am I 'cured?' Is this what it feels like to be normal? To allow yourself to get swept up in the mess of everyday, pointless life? Is this the goal? Is this mentally healthy? To allow my biggest dream to be a vacation to England and the day he potty trains and a cup of coffee? It all seems so... insignificant. Safe. Sanitary. 

Tender Is The Night

I can't really remember when I decided I needed to read some Fitzgerald. It was probably in a cafe, thinking about Paris. With my life over the past 5 years, it might have been in a cafe in Paris. I don't remember, but it must have been some time ago. I have had, Tender Is The Night in my possession for years now. I pick it up, read the first few passages, and then get distracted by life. That is how reading, and writing, are for me these days.

Somehow, since we moved to Gabrovo, Peatuk has decided that he will let me read while breastfeeding again, as long as he is already attached and half asleep. (He is such a gracious bug.) I discovered I was ravenous for the written word. I finished The Green Mile in two days. The World and Other Places took me longer, if only because I had to stop and bask in its genius too many times.

My books written in English are limited these days, and I have finally admitted that reading Bulgarian is work; not relaxing in the least. That left Tender is the Night and a few classic Bulgarian novels translated into English. I decided to be daring and pick up the Fitzgerald, once again.

It is so different from the other times I tried to start it. The book is downright delicious, and it makes me want to start writing again. Part of what I find so amusing is the parallels to every Hemingway book that is set in Europe. From the clothing of the main characters to how they eat and drink, it is the exact same scene, written in only slightly different perspective. It makes me feel like I am revisiting parties that I have already attended.

It, strangely, made me want to write a very dry, honest short story about work. It was only after I played the idea over in my mind for a day that I realized I have never actually had a 'real' job. (What makes a job any more real than another, anyway?)

I have volunteered for the majority of my life. I went from part-time college jobs: colorguard coach, fast food, exotic dancer, fire spinner.... to part time barista, sumer camp counselor, AmeriCorps, Conservation Corps, Peace Corps... I have never sat behind a desk, hating the tedium of meaningless labor. The closest I have been to that, ironically, is now that I am working as a writer. Now that I am making good money doing the thing I have always wanted to do, I feel the absurdity of supporting consumer fetishes.

I have become a writer, but instead of writing the truth, I bend reality into the perfect life that helps support capitalism. I find it to be my most meaningless work. Before, I may have been volunteering and making less than minimum wage, but I was touching the threads of human development. I was helping people create relationships and build skills. It was meaningful. Now, I make $40 an hour. That's real, but there is no satisfaction, because all of this virtual work, building the internet and bolstering consumer-capitalism is... unnecessary. It is fluff. My first 'real' job feels nothing but fake.