Author Archives: Sally

Sally Garnatah writes silly things. Some of Sally’s stories are true. For legal purposes, consider all of these posts to be … autofiction, if you can stomach that kind of quasi-pretentious literary stuff. Sally doesn’t read autofiction, though. She’s too much of a country girl. You can find her down by the Tennessee River, out in the woods, standing in a sorghum field — or you can find her right here, on her blog.

Seasonal Depression

This last push toward spring always gets me. In my head, I’m walking up a hill filled with daffodils — and the promise of better weather and warmer days. About halfway up the hill, though — that’s when I’ll hit the first slick spot. There are always two or three slick spots, or muddy spots, or icy spots on the big hill.

That’s what late January and early February feel like, for me.

The first time I noticed that I was depressed, back in 2013, I had trouble showering, cleaning up, shaving, trimming my nails, etc. I’ll readily admit that I had hygiene troubles — and it was because I couldn’t get my brain to take care of the basic business of living.

Back then, I remember that one of my dental hygienists asked me if I was brushing my teeth properly. I was completely depressed — and I feel like other people besides my hygienist noticed it, but absolutely no one else said anything about it.

People are too polite to meddle — when it’s something really serious, I mean. Some people feel free to give an overweight person unsolicited advice on dieting or exercise, because they feel entitled to comment on what would make someone else more palatable or pleasurable — to them, the outside observer. It’s a disgusting type of behavior — to try to throw a life preserver at someone who doesn’t want or need one.

But these same people are nowhere to be found when someone is genuinely struggling, or genuinely in need of a support system. These same people absolutely struggle to give advice to — or to even be around — someone with depression, because … I guess they think thoughts-of-suicide are contagious.

At this point, I have to admit that I’m lucky to have not struggled with suicidal ideation. I usually just … I feel trapped where I am. I feel like moving on to something else would suit me better, so anytime I start to panic, I begin making plans for a completely different future. I also catastrophize, yeah, but I keep telling myself that I can start planning for a different future, with a different life — and that’s always kept me focused on living.

Wait a damn minute. Is that just maladaptive daydreaming? I don’t think so, because some of my plans have come to fruition. Some haven’t, of course, but that’s …

That’s probably a good thing.

Now, eleven years later, you’d think I’d be used to depressive episodes. And I am. I’ve found ways to cope. But I’m perpetually exhausted. I do everything I possibly can, even when I’m low on energy, but then I collapse at the end of the day.

So, instead of not showering, I do make sure that I carve out time for bathing. But it’s an almost Herculanean feat. I will shower, but it will take nearly thirty minutes to take care of everything — showering, shaving, etc.

I can trim my toenails or brush my hair, but then I’ll have to take a fifteen or twenty minute break to mentally regroup. And the most confusing aspect, for me, is that I don’t feel like I should feel fatigued.

I don’t do a lot of strenuous work or exercise, but because I spend my days overthinking, I exhaust myself.

I’m not physically exhausted, but I get mentally overwhelmed. It drains me, trying to keep up with just the basic tasks of living. Being interested in living is tougher, when the grass isn’t green and the sky is always a little too gray.

By spring, these signs and symptoms will dissipate. I’ll start feeling more normal and, with more daylight hours, I’ll feel like I have more time to get things done.

I just have to make it through this last little window of winter. And I’ll try my best, one minute at a time.

Home On The (O)range

As a writer, I often pay attention to newly-released and bestselling books. I have never written a bestseller — and likely never will, because I prefer writing short posts and short poems — but I know my way around a bestseller. I’ve read some and I’ve carefully avoided others.

But even if I don’t plan on reading the book in question, I like to know what’s trending, and I like to figure out why people are interested in these trends.

I’m not a market researcher. I’m just a nosey broad

Lately, I’ve been paying more attention to covers and jackets and thumbnail art — and I’ve noticed that orange is a big color right now. As winter fades into spring, bright colors are making a comeback. I think that’s lovely.

And the orange spines and white pages? They make me want a Creamsicle. Mmmmmm.

A Short List of Imaginary People Whose Lives Are Worth Pondering

1. a by-the-Book Protestant who never dances — but needs to learn an entire dance routine after being invited to participate in a Hindi friend’s wedding

2. a British person whose favorite Beyoncé song is “Partition”

3. a vampire who likes to eat at Subway, but the only type of bread they have ready is the Italian Herb loaf

4. a Crip who’s also a beekeeper

5. a Church of Christ member who’s secretly a super talented multi-instrumentalist

Royal Tea

I’ve written before about how — after tracing a branch of my family tree back to colonial Virginia — I found out that I had Congolese ancestors.

After years of researching this side of our tree, I learned quite a bit about Chesapeake Creole folks and Melungeon people.

After hearing about Prince King Charles’s (alleged) fears about multiethnic/multiracial families, I wondered: What would that bloke think of Melungeons?

It’s not that I actually care what he thinks. I just think that he’d be secretly a little bit afraid to meet anyone from Kentucky, Tennessee, and that particular corner of Virginia. The not knowing who is “what” would completely confuse him.

I doubt he’s coming to this part of the country. And that’s … that’s fine by me.

It’s more than fine, actually.

Nightcap

Last night/tonight/this morning, I decided to take advantage of this cross-country wind/snow/ice maelstrom by making the most of the time I’m spending indoors.

Sorry for all of the slashes, by the way. I promise that I’ll slow down with those. But I’ll never let go of the em-dash. Never.

I decided to do chores and drink some Asti. I did laundry, I did some dishwashing, I did some baking, and I had a wee drink.

The bottle seemed like a Nebuchadnezzar, even though it was probably a Jeroboam.

I feel like I ought to know more about who Jeroboam was, considering that he has so much to offer.

I didn’t overdo it, by the way. I had a rather small glass — but I drank on a mostly empty stomach.

I almost made some Indomie chicken curry noodles, but I realized that I could just eat some of the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies I was in the middle of baking. It was a matter of waiting fifteen minutes instead of five minutes, so I braved the moment by thinking about … well, a lot of nothing. As always.

My body was moving faster and faster, getting things done more quickly than I felt like I had any right to. But my brain started moving more and more slowly. I kept walking around and moving, even though I could feel my thoughts sloshing around.

Whenever I drink wine, I feel sleepy and happy — but mostly sleepy. I can’t say that I’ve ever experienced anything quite like I experienced tonight, though. The closest comparison I can make is that I felt similarly lightheaded the last time I donated blood.

I calmed down pretty quickly, but I still felt a weird combination of … euphoria and confusion. Everything was going haywire. I burned my hands while trying to put away glasses that got too hot in the dishwasher, so I decided to just sit quietly and try to collect myself.

I sat on the couch and opened TikTok. I don’t know why I thought this would help. I watched a couple of TikTok lives. One was an older South Korean man who wore a wig and played the recorder. The next one was an older American man who wore a suit and sang Nina Simone songs.

“!” I said, as I watched these two performances. I couldn’t really form long sentences or meaningful words, but I could form !s.

If you want to know what ! sounds like, then imagine a muted hiccup. A hiccup that’s followed by a fuzzy tingle in your consciousness.

My mind began to race and then slow down again. I felt like a laptop with a whirring fan.

I also felt like I was made out of someone else’s secrets. I was just a bundle of bubbles and … even more bubbles.

But I also felt warm and jazzy. I felt like Corporate Memphis. I felt like a saxophone solo.

A saxophone solo followed by seven hours of sleep. And it was amazing.

Our People, Our Place

A couple months ago, I watched a documentary about a young woman from my hometown. She was murdered, and the circumstances surrounding her murder were tragic. She was a mother. She was especially young — still a teen, if I remember correctly. They found her on a football practice field. I think about her when I drive past that field, which has since been landscaped with a garden in her memory.

Throughout the documentary, there were repeated mentions of how football has always been a huge cultural asset in our town. This is the kind of place where you have to make your own fun — throw a house party, go to someone else’s to hang out, or drive around looking for other people who don’t have anything else to do. There are restaurants that serve alcohol, but there aren’t any bars or clubs. The only “big” opportunity to get out and be around a crowd of people is to go to the Friday night football games, where there’s almost a guaranteed chance that our team will win, no matter who they’re playing against.

The town’s high school football program is near the top of the list of the “most winningnest schools” out of all the high schools around the country. It’s true that the football program is ancient, and that’s part of the reason they can claim so many wins. But football has cemented itself in this town. It’s the kind of thing that children are scouted for, from the time they’re six or seven – if they have talent, they will be playing football when they’re sixteen.

When it comes to professional sports, I’ve generally been more of a basketball fan than a football fan. But always I love to see local kids play well and get recognized for it. I’m always happy when they make it to the state tournament, because … well, they’ve earned the praise.

The documentary I mentioned earlier — about the young woman from our town — seemed respectful. The narrative covered more than the football program. Although the story of our town is intertwined with the stories and the fate of the people who live here, our town is more than just tragedy or triumph. The story of the town and its best features isn’t the same story as the story of what happened to her — her life and her death, and her family’s path to seeking justice.

It’s not winning titles that makes this town worthy of praise. The people around here are the ones who make everything what it is — from the teams to the neighborhoods, from the crowds at parades and games to the folks you see in passing. Not to sound overly sentimental, but the people around here make the town what it is.

Our people — the ones who care about each other — are really our best feature.

Miss Behavior

In a psychology class I took when I was 20, back when I was smack dab in the middle of a severe depressive funk, we had to come up with an activity that “defies social norms.” We had to go out and do this unusual activity in public (or around family and friends) to gauge reactions to our anti-social behavior.

Because my very existence defies social norms, you’d think that this would be an easy activity for me.

It wasn’t. I was feeling down and dull, so I decided to do something simple: I stared at people, to see if or when they noticed.

At 29, I feel more creative. I wish I’d done something silly, like wearing all my clothes inside out.

I’m not talking about a Superman situation, I should say. I’m keeping Victoria’s secret. But flipping my jeans over and wearing them with the lining-side on the outside? I could do that. No branding, just … just lining.

I’m a consumer, but I don’t let it consume me.