I always click on the saddest, most horrible articles in the New York Times online. Yesterday, I read about a study finding that parents who lose a child have an increased risk of heart attacks. The idea being that heartbreak actually breaks your heart. I read most of the comments, too. The most pertinent one was, “No kidding.”

The saddest one, the one I most identified with was this, from a mother:

I have never been the same. My broken heart was only part of the casualty. A shadow appearing as myself has been going about the Sisyphean task called life.

Yes, that’s a perfect summation. I am here but not here. That’s just the way it is.

I dutifully read the bleak, sappy, distressing and sometimes clueless comments and was finally rewarded by a guy who pointed out that the African dik-dik dies of heartbreak after a partner passes away. I pictured a noble tribe of nomadic herders, swathed in beads and kente cloth and dropping dead in their paths.

But the dik-dik is a tiny species of antelope, reaching only around 12 to 16 inches high!  Unlike other antelope, who live in herds, the dik-dik live in pairs. They are monogamous partners for life, and so protective of their privacy that they chase away their own offspring before they reach 8 months old.

The dik-dik are not only cute, with wiggly noses and long eyelashes, but obviously incurable romantics! Without the defenses of a herd, they are easy prey for larger animals, but they are true to their nature, trusting and depending on each other for everything.

And here is the best part: Instead of marking their territory with urine, like most animals, the dik-dik mark their territories with tears.

dik-dik bury their heads into the grass and release a special tear from a black spot below their eyes. This sticky preorbital glandular fluid cannot be smelled by human nostrils but conveys everything necessary to other dik-dik.

I love them so much. A world with dik-dik in it can’t be dismissed as all bad. It’s mostly bad, but like the dictum, focus on the dopeness, not the wackness, I’m going to focus on the dik-dik, and so should you.

Everyone I know and everyone you know can quote the first line of This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin, a poem he wrote in 1971.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

That one line has served as gospel for at least two generations.  It validates adolescent resentment like nothing else. See, a famous poet says you fucked us up, you fuckers. It’s official.

And of course they do, your mum and dad. Because everyone is fucked up, and everything starts at home, where grown ups can make random rules because you are powerless.

If only they’d been more affectionate or less affectionate, more involved or less involved, more attentive or less smothering, if only they’d fought less or fought more. Or as Larkin complains,

They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

Philip Larkin followed his own advice and didn’t have kids. So he never discovered a consecutive truth that parents learn the hard way. They fuck you up, your kids.

They fuck you up in small ways or in ways that crush you. They rob you of sleep and peace of mind, for starters. You will never rest easy, once you’re a parent. Every fever, illness or broken bone, you’d do anything to take their place. If they’re not home on time, you will be worried, then frantic. Every hurt they experience, you experience with them, but magnified. They own your heart, and they don’t care if they break it.

They didn’t ask to be born, you know. So fuck you. Did you make sacrifices for them? Too bad, that was your job.

I wish I’d had more compassion for my mom, even though she was so unfit for motherhood. I wouldn’t budge in my resentment until she got cancer. I could list the ways she failed me but never put myself in her shoes.

I used to urge my childless friends to have babies, if they asked my opinion. I told them that motherhood was so transcendent, so sublime, that life would be eternal high school without the experience. They would never know the scope and magnitude of pure selfless love. That part is true, I believe, but I regret my sales pitch now. I didn’t factor in how much they fuck you up.

Most of you parents would do it again with no hesitation, right? I would too, because those happy years were the best! But the downside, oh my god, it is terrible. I once considered setting myself on fire – it’s the method most available to women in India, and I thought the physical agony might cancel out the emotional distress. I got over it, so don’t freak out, alright? I’m just trying to illustrate the downness of the downside.

You expect your kids to love you back. You have all kinds of expectations.

Philip Larkin, I’ve always respected your English miserabilism. You were no match for Beckett, but who is? Anyway, not being a poet I can only offer this haiku I just made up.

You poor angry boy
If you don’t feel I’m your mom
You won’t get the house.

I have been too sad lately. Too sad to stay awake and too sad to live. It comes and goes. When it doesn’t go, I get worried and even more despondent.

It’s something to do with my genes and my early childhood and my recurring depressions which make my brain more susceptible to triggers and don’t forget my PTSD.

I miss my children and wonder what the point is. I feel exhausted and worthless. I imagine the horror of whoever would find my dead body and decide, “Never mind. I can go on.”

So when I read about a designer who turned teddy bears into art, I was inspired to try this myself. It would be better than “add Abilify.” It would be like occupational therapy.

It would give my hands something to do late at night when I decide to start picking the little scabs on my legs that I get from picking the little scabs on my legs. This leg thing has now gone on intermittently for several years. (See here.) It is comforting in the moment but disappointing afterward.

I got a used teddy bear and bought some embroidery thread. I can’t remember how to embroider but that’s okay.

I’ve been working on my poor little bear, who is not only willing to undergo my pain for me, he is glad to be of service. I can tell when I look in his eyes. He is offering Himself up like Jesus Christ, suffering on my behalf with endless compassion.

I am mostly maiming him with unneeded surgery. I’m throwing in some decorative touches like sequins but mostly I’m fixing his wounds, that is to say my wounds. There is a lot of work to do.

My heart is so broken but the poor little bear understands. He might never be art but who among us really is, right?  He feels my love, even as I torture him.

Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to work.

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“Suicide is not a rational act. It is an act of desperation, carried out after a monumental struggle.“

If only we could all form a safety net for those who can’t see a way out of their suffering! Please Don’t Jump is a FB page dedicated to just that effort. The gallery of photos is a monument to human compassion.

Read about how media can help prevent “copycat” suicide by responsible reporting.

Death should never be romanticized. People who jump are not in their right mind. When you jump, you take the rest of us with you.   It’s not a solution.   It is endless trauma. It’s not a gay issue or a bullying issue, it’s depression and hopelessness.   We need to stop talking about cyberbullying and start talking about support   for those who are vulnerable.

Some organizations were calling for a moment of silence tonight, to mourn the recent spate of suicides. Silence won’t help. I’m calling for a vow to reach out to a troubled friend, family member, loved one or stranger. Remind them how much they are needed.   You might not be able to help, but it will never be a waste of time.

I have taken a vow to stop buying black jeans, but I broke it twice in one week. I’m beginning to wonder if there are any black jeans in the universe that would fit me properly, or if I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that the answer is No.

My latest Black Jeans disappointment are a pair by Aristocrat (whoever they are) reduced from $195 to $50. They were too tight but I assumed they would stretch to fit after a few hours. Now I realize that the only jeans that stretch that much are the ones that fit perfectly! Then, they’re too baggy.

My black Nudie jeans: too baggy. Black skinny Levis: too baggy. Black Superfine jeans: too baggy AND too tight. Black L.A.M.B jeans: way too baggy, but too tight when I bought them.

There is no end to this heartbreak. I want some perfect Black Jeans and I’ve wasted enough money to fund a thousand new jobs to build up the infrastructure of this great country of ours. How can I stop the insanity?!?

I tried to break the curse by buying these silvery-black jeans online, but they turned out to be preposterously tiny for a size 4, and they were a ‘final sale,’ as usual.

My loss, in this case, is Annemarie‘s gain, because I know they will fit her. Not only that, but she gave me the Ferragamo sweater in the photo above.

I feel I am enmeshed in a hopeless enterprise but unable to admit defeat or just move on. What would Jesus do?