Friday night out

I read somewhere that every family is its own country. I think my family has its own climate.

On Friday night everyone was in a good enough mood to want to go out for pizza.

There was a series of events: Work called on my mobile to get some information. T didn't want to go into the restaurant because he had somewhere else in mind.

Clouds gathered.

In the restaurant T grabbed the knife (what else?) and when J tried to retrieve it a tantrum ensued.

The work call ended. T was clinging onto that knife and sobbing, head down on the table. J's eyes were pink rimmed; his pupils disappearing into a flat icy blue; his mouth a thin, hard line.


I looked at the menu. There was a brief conversation along the lines of:

J: "I hate this. I don't want to be here."

"If we just ignore him for a bit the tantrum will stop and he'll be fine."

"That knife is dangerous. I had to get it off him. Why is work calling you? Their timing is terrible as usual."

(Now there's a lot of subtext in that particular statement but it's for another post.)

"Why don't we just pick something off the menu and order?"

"I'm not hungry. I'm never doing this again. I hate it. I don't want to be here. I don't want anything."

"Well perhaps you should go then. This isn't exactly fun."

And so he did. We were the only diners there at the time so the staff were treated to a floorshow (and they very studiously averted their eyes).

After J left I ordered pizza anyway, the tantrum was soon over and the Simpsons were on telly so it was calm and really not so bad.

J eventually and unexpectedly returned. The waitress fussed over him a bit. We sat in silence for a while until I decided I wanted to salvage my Friday night. The thought of heading home in that state made me want to throw myself from a moving car (I sometimes fantasise about this on the way home in just such states, just fantasy).

So I asked if we could just start again. I was prepared for the lack of enthusiasm and I just rode it out.

And eventually the clouds rolled back. J had a slice of pizza and T talked to him for a bit about transformers and T-Rex and we all headed off to another place for ice cream where we watched the people go by and talked about other things and didn't go home until dark.

So all in all I would say that was a relatively successful night out. But I do wonder sometimes what it looks like from the outside. I think J looks a bit scary when he's down, that hard, dead stare, the body held rigid, fists clenched. He looks like a dead man walking. And there are T and I, pretty much going on as normal. Though I must sound so desperate at times, almost begging to go and do something pathetically ordinary.

My family is its own country. Our laws are specific to depression and wearying to explain to outsiders. The language we speak is always loaded by the given state of depression at the time. We are governed in our actions and responses by the fickle weather of depression. The wind can shift at any time so we are always on our toes. No wonder we are tired.

Flo