I got a mole/skin tag cut off from my armpit on Monday. It wasn't a big deal. Really, it was something that was just kinda hanging there, sort of getting in the way, sort of getting played with by my daughter sometimes which would totally give me the creeps. When I told my husband that I got it cut off, he knew exactly what I was talking about and said, "Oh yeah. Good call."
Just a little local anesthetic and a very sharp razor and I was rid of the thing forever.
Here's the part where I wish that I had taken a "before" picture (for now you'll have to rely on trusty Google images, aren't you lucky) because it was this teeny little hangey skin mole thing and getting it taken off was not a big deal. The next day? And even, what are we - Wednesday? - and my arm still isn't quite right. It's sore, it's bruised, it's lingering. So naturally, I started waxing poetic about my mole (or as my hubs so fondly named it, the naked mole rat) and thinking about depression.
This is my first time posting on here so you don't know me yet. The short version of my depression history is that in high school my parents divorced, my grandfather died, and my friend jumped off a bridge kind of all at the same time. Fast forward to the end of 2010 when I had a really intense birth experience (and a gorgeous baby), went back to work, woke up terrified in cold sweaty anxiety attacks, checked myself into therapy and ended up quitting my dream job - life's work, really - to stay at home with my nugget.
I found myself wishing these last few days that depression and everything that goes with it should be like an actual physical manifestation. A growth on your body that people can look at and go "Whoa check out that thing on her face. I need to give her some extra love and grace. That is some major depression." THEN! Super bonus: we could use creams and anesthesia and knives to cut it off. Maybe it would grow back, maybe it would scab over, but hallelujah we would be free!
But then the scar would still be there. Something is always left behind. The pain remains for awhile. I didn't even notice the thing until it was gone and now it haunts me. When I'm grabbing a coffee mug from the top shelf. Washing my hair. Maybe it will always be there. Maybe my sadness will just be my thing. I'll be that girl who's really super bubbly and friendly but that you'll never really get to know deeply because I won't let you far enough into my life. I'll be the one who if you look closely you can see a shadow of it in my eyes or the way I smile.
And you know what? I'm okay with that. It's just a part of who I am.
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