Depression

Depression


Once again I woke up between four a.m. and five.
I don’t fight it anymore. I get up and write.
Most of it is junk struggle on paper.
Important is the stuff of dreams.
Dreams are atmospheric poems, of mythic, mystic
and physical layers to be deciphered and read.

Some of them are, anyway. Others, I’m convinced, are ways
for the body and spirit to throw off poisons.
Try eating a pizza and drinking a few beers just before sleep
and see what you dream.

Lei, my wonderful lomi lomi massage friend in Waimanalo
confirmed that many of her female friends and clients
are depressed, when I daringly stated (for me, I don’t like
to admit things like this) that I might be a little depressed.

Many of us are depressed since the election.
The voters have just given a Christian fundamentalist
and corporate regime permission to destroy the world.
Women tend to carry these currents in their bodies,
or maybe we just admit to them. We are all made of water.
I feel stymied, like my spirit is wearing lead boots,
walking up a mud mountain that’s been stripped bare of
all animal and plant life and I’m alone.

What especially bothers me is the thought that at least half
this country would vote to support an administration
that lies, kills and steals. There. I’ve said it.
Yes, there probably was vote tampering and other forms
of dishonesty at work. But each of us has relatives
who support the current government, though they have suffered
from the terrible economy, don’t have a job, or support
for educational programs, are having a hard time buying clothes
and shoes for the family, and are afraid that their lifelong
American dreams will be lost by the liberals
who will let the terrorists get us.

Maybe it’s really fear that’s ruling the country.
And the struggle is not to give into it,
whether it’s our beloved duped ones who are afraid,
or we who are afraid because we dare to look past
the television and our bellies to what we see happening
all around us.

Joy Harjo late 2004