Diving Under

Several years ago I took a lifeguard refresher course. It was held at a YMCA summer camp property, in early June; school was still in session, so the camp was empty.
I arrive with my handmade spandex swimming suit: midnight blue with purple flowers, and a matching swim cap. I love the print and am pleased with my handiwork creating a coordinated look. The cap has one seam down the middle with a flower carefully centered above each ear.
The one exercise I always hate in lifeguard training is retrieving a 10 pound rubberized brick from a depth of 10 feet. My ears are very sensitive to water pressure and I avoid surface diving when I can. (Scuba diving is very different. I equalize my ear air pressure as I slowly descend. But speed is of the essence when diving for a heavy black brick.)
The dark New Hampshire lake water is cold but full of plant life. As I dive for the brick, I can’t see the bottom. At six feet down I feel my beloved, color-coordinated swim cap slip up my scalp. I know I will lose it if I don’t stop diving and grab it, but I am more certain that I don’t have a second dive in me. So I push on, stroking with my arms, kicking with my feet, diving deeper and deeper into the abyss, my lungs burning with the desire to breath.
I know, I know, I’m being overdramatic here. But it really is an ordeal, albeit a self-inflicted one.
The experience of pushing myself down into that dark water, desperate for a breath, desperate to get it right the first time, that’s "The Well of Grief" David Whyte describes.

And today is the seventh monthiversary of David’s death. I wake up slowly after disturbing night dreams. As I clear the supper dishes from the dish drain (we don’t have a dishwasher) I feel exhausted. It’s like flu, though I know it’s not flu. My arms feel heavy, I’m easily out of breath, climbing a flight of stairs takes extra effort.

Last month I told my therapist, David Battit, that I thought since everyone with experience says the first year is the hardest that each passing month would be easier. He doesn’t think it works that way, and it isn’t working that way for me. He suggests a grief cycle, feeling in turns better and then worse again.

One of my worries is that I’ll sink into clinical depression. Having bipolar, it’s an oft-recurring question: when is a mood innocuous and when is it a harbinger of a serious downturn? I’ve returned to facilitating at DBSA-Boston (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance). In the Newcomers group, I routinely report on my experience after my mom, then my dad, and then David died: grief is different from depression. I’m sad, it hurts terribly, but it’s entirely different than depression.

However, in the forest of my mind runs a stream of awareness that depression could develop at any time. Just because I’m grieving doesn’t mean I won’t get depressed. I’m grateful for each day that finds me not depressed and hope my meds and therapy keep working.