[RF] - 333; A Story on Depression
Last night I retrieved my phone, wondered if Megan would text, stared at the screen, and threw it into the corner of my room. Seconds later, I reached for my digital pacifier – my meditation app – hoping it would halt the surging chemicals in my body and slow my breathing.
Hold for 4 seconds. Exhale for 7. Repeat 5 times.
My muscles constricted as I lay in bed, mulling over every moment I could have fucked up. What happened? I squeezed my eyes tightly, trying to dull the pain. Was it something I said that scared her off? Unease and tension persisted as I dreamed of electric sheep springing to their deaths, leaping from my high-rise apartment, each hoping in their final moments to find rest with its kind.
Silence.
As the final sheep made their descent, I woke to nothingness. 3:33 AM. It had nothing to do with the supernatural, as one might expect at such an hour, yet it was the perpetual drumming of my heart that forced my eyes open. My eyes hurt so badly, crusty tears lacing my lashes together. I pressed down on my eyelids, separating the seam, allowing myself to cross into the world of the living.
In the darkness I thought I could see faces peering at me from the corners of the room and haunting figures staring up at me from the floor. This was the time where my sleep cycle ebbed and flowed to such a point where I naturally burst awake – chest pounding. It’s always the worst when my mind fixates on a single thought for days. My blankets constricted around me, leaving me panic-stricken and thrashing in bed.
Am I still asleep?
I know my insecurities. I’ve given so much of myself away that I no longer know what’s mine. I’m ready to prostrate myself before my master, wave my white flag, and proclaim:
“Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God.”
The problem with people like me is that we already know how this ends: we kneel, we give, we break, and then we pretend its devotion instead of surrender. I’m carried away to a fictional world. What if my God is Caesar? What if my God hates me? I know he does. I want to give myself up to something – and I have. I dream of being taken up on the cross, and my penance displayed for those around me. Sacrificed.
As I lay in a tangled mass of bedsheets, resisting the black hole’s pull to separate my bones from my sinews, what choice did I have? My breath stabilized, and I emerged from the cocoon that encapsulated me. My heart was much denser, yet I felt the light escaping. I wished that the gravity would trap the light inside of me, to keep any creatures in my house asleep. I tip-toed around the house until I settled back onto the unforgiving couch in the cool, moon-lit living room, replaying the previous evening.
I wondered what could have gone wrong with Megan. I thought everything went well. We dined on a cool evening at an upscale restaurant. The moon bright in the sky. We talked incessantly. As the night ambled on, the staff informed us that the restaurant was closing, and the heat of the evening moved into the chilly air. The distance shrunk in an instant between us and then exploded into a new universe where our stars would never interact again. Time and space moved so quickly.
I reposed on the couch, finding only more emptiness and isolation. Mars hung low in the sky, its moons Phobos and Deimos circling it, casting shadows that crawled across the early morning and into my window. My skin tingled as if the brothers themselves were clawing at me, raising goosebumps across my body. For a moment, I imagined peeling away the prickling flesh, yet fear propelled me forward—even as the thought of knives and razorblades whispered a strange warmth in my ear. Do it. I drew the heavy black curtain and bolted from the room, leaving the razorblade.
I wandered downstairs and my hand floated above a bottle of water on the shelf. A prayer to what, convenience or consumerism? To the quiet lie that the tap water would poison me? Another lie from my God. And as I looked up, I noticed the office light was on, a faint glow spilling from under the door. A waste of energy. I put my fingertips to my cool forehead and whispered to the home assistant on my counter, a plea to another God. “Turn off office lights.”
It made a happy, confident ding, and the light stayed on.
Another God that refuses to listen. A God that pretends. The rage was so sudden, so stupidly small, so out of my control. I walked in and flipped the switch myself, the sharp click grating against the silence in the house. I unplugged the assistant, and then the rest of them scattered around my house. All of them. Purging the false Gods.
Was this my God?
I stared into the abyss as I spoke to the home assistant, and I looked at the water bottle for a while, rubbing my stubbled cheek. These questions filled my mind and pushed out my other concerns. I knew they were meaningless, but they focused my mind for the moment. Who do I think I’m proving myself to in an empty house? Do these prayers come up to keep my mind from cutting myself into two, rending my soul from my body? The unsolvable burdens and little creatures in my house anchor themselves to me. I want something to live for until I’m summoned up to serve. Though, I probably serve no purpose at all.
By the time I reached the couch again, I was exhausted. My thoughts churned and frothed against one another, impossible to settle, impossible to quiet. The room felt heavier with each breath, as if the air itself had grown dense with memory. Every method of rebalancing I’d been told to try seemed useless. Therapy? Prioritize yourself! Medications? Try this drug! The only thing that seemed to work for me was isolation and resisting the urge to give up. More friends? Hit or miss.
But, the weakening fibers of the couch after 7 years of use inspired me to get up and take a hot bath.
I wonder what Megan is doing now.
That used to work in the past for everyone from peasants to Kings to Gods, and so without hesitation, I placed one foot over the other, entering the steamy water and placing a warm cloth across my forehead. They say the bath is the best place to think, and therein lies the problem: this is the least relaxing place in the world for me as I am not a peasant, a King, or a God. I am nothing.
As the steam filled my nostrils, I wondered why I shouldn’t take my organs and splay them across the ground for the world to poke at, probably damaged and worn. Maybe they could finally see me. Just take the knife and pluck out the superfluous parts first.
I left the razor in the living room. Fuck.
The skin and those little bumps. Then just a kidney. Maybe part of the liver. That might be a little too deep, but that’s where history could really be seen, and the agony of life on full display.
Having removed wine glasses and other numbing agents from my life, it’s now become difficult to find ataraxis which seems counterintuitive. I lacked control. Meditation worked for a while – then I tried hiking, biking, and all of the modern pseudo-scientific techniques to cope.
In an instant, as the creatures in my house started to stir, staring at me through piercing, judging eyes, I realized that history has its limits in defining a person. Only the creatures that live in my own house see what I see – their dark judging eyes revealing all of my internal and external insecurities during the time between night and day. Why should I show God these things? As dark as some organs may be, light spills from others, just as the sun circles the Earth. Darkness is left in its wake. Or maybe light is.
As the sun rose above the horizon, it became apparent that every sacrifice or consideration could be ignored.
I made my way out of the bathtub, the light from the sun creating shadow puppets of leaves and branches through the single window in the bathroom*.* I grabbed the nearest towel, whisking water from my body, eyes drawn to the light. And the creatures went gently into that good night. And they were gone. The bees filled the pear tree, and the brothers of Mars hung their heads in shame.
Another long night survived. I placed the razorblade back in the cabinet and watched the creatures scurry under my bed.