TW: depression, thoughts of death, annoying exes
Waves crashing in the distance create a meditative soundtrack as my mind spirals and tumbles towards darkness. I lay still in the make-shift bed he made us in the back of his jeep. The jeep we used to chase the sunlight and used to find muddy trails in Oregon forests and used to escape the heat of our apartments that summer.
Now we are parked on an Oregon coast cliff overlooking the rocky, jagged slopes and lush greenery draping each crevice. The dark clouds loomed low as a fine mist sprayed from every angle. The pacific northwest had a special way of haunting you even in the summer. There was always more rain.
As I lay next to him, I hold myself, silently begging him to wrap his arms around me. I had never been so isolated and lonely while simultaneously experiencing a summer that showed me how to love. Visions penetrate my mind of waking up to him in my bed and allowing him to slowly milk me of energy until a sticky sweet substance covers both of us, to then perform a baptism of our lust in the swimming pool to clean ourselves off.
That feels like worlds apart from where I currently rest as he lays with his back turned to me. I silently begin to cry trying not to choke on my own snot. As if to only comfort me out of pity, he turns to hold me and asks me why I’m crying. My heart pounds loud enough for both of us to listen but louder are the cries I let out for relief from this pain. Not understanding, he continues to push for answers.
With a forced whimper I relinquish the idea of wanting to die. My eyes close rapidly and with great force as the salty tears begin to burn and threaten my vision. Staying silent he accepts this answer, hugs me one last empty time, then turns back around letting the curvatures of our spines touch once again. I have never healed from telling someone I loved such a well kept truth.
My depression has always served as a pacifier for my sadness. An anchor that provides me an answer for what I’m feeling. It’s there like a thick, soft blanket cradling me in its warmth and understanding. That’s not to say I love my depression. My mental health is an abusive relationship, holding me by the neck in its tight grip only to hug me and tell me it loves me. The timeline of this relationship feels long and burdensome. Will I ever escape its torture?
When I was 12 I was diagnosed with clinical depression. I resented the doctor for saying it out loud. Both relieved to be validated and angry to be exposed. He recommended a starting dose of medication that I later refused to take. Further masking my pain, I told my doctor with my chest raised that I would be curing my depression with meditation and a blind trust of crystal healing — no amount of rose quartz could have healed me. He was stunned that a child was telling him so confidently what they wanted to do with their body. I blame my Sagittarius rising. While the crystal healing never healed me and eventually evaporated from my daily practice, my depression remained.
Reflecting back I was scared to lose the one friend I had in my life, sadness being the name they go by. What would happen once medication muted that voice? With its consistency and dedication to ruin my life, I assumed that it only cared about me and I started to feel safe in its clammy hands. I still do. Like a routine, I allow sadness to wallow through my body with the same normalcy of drinking coffee in the morning. I drink coffee and I am sad. Day by day. Wake up, repeat.
At 27 years old, I am still unmedicated. Whether by choice or because of not having health insurance, who’s to say. I can confidently accept being trans and having to see my doctor regularly for estrogen prescriptions, yet cannot find a valid reason to seek out a doctor for this codependent relationship. However I tread softly when the mist starts to appear and the shadow of my longtime friend gains opacity in my brain. Sadness both constricting and comforting me.
Recently, my transition has overtaken my depression. Allowing that voice to stay quiet while I focus intently on the person I want to become. A reason to feel hopeful. As I talk to my mom on the phone, I explain to her that while I lay in bed and fall for the habit of thinking about how I want to die, my transition reminds me that I have something to look forward to. I remain sad in many other ways, but my general sadness has slowly begun to fade.
My sadness has always been the bayonet to my heart, however I am thankful for its presence in my life. Through my ability to navigate and accept its presence in my life, I am constantly reminded of my resilience and fight to be alive, enjoying such a beautiful life.
This writing is so intimate and deeply touching 🩷 “My sadness has always been the bayonet to my heart, however I am thankful for its presence in my life.” Sadness as a life companion tethered to its person… such resonant imagery! Thank you for sharing!!!
there’s something very intimate about being comforted by sadness & you capture it exceptionally well. it’s something I keep looking back on & trying to detangle as well. it feels kind of strange and wrong to be so close to something that’s ultimately doing harm but like you said it’s often all there is. anyways thank you for this!!! such lovely writing