Eyes open. Today, I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful for how far I’ve come. Stretching, a yawn accompanies the pathway to the alarm clock. I shut it off, resetting this ritual for tomorrow. I sit there, in the same bed I had a year ago with a less favorable response. I am able to thrust the bedsheets away and put my feet onto the floor for today, at long last, is the moment where I’ve crossed the anniversary (April 26, 2021) when my depression reached its lowest or, optimistically, the center of its parabola.
Anniversaries like this were always important to me. Maybe it was sociopathic to chronicle my full depression over a three part essay last November, but it created closure. The pain of holding onto these ideas is difficult. For to remove one piece – especially a period as pivotal as five months – is to slowly lose your identity. These were not my best months. My writing was at times abysmal, lacking cogency. I kept receiving complaints that I didn’t have a sense of time, where my self-editing skills hadn’t been this much of an afterthought since I was on MySpace. And yet, I wrote. I wrote because I knew that if this ever happened again I would want some documentation to help me believe that I got out alive, in a condition deserving of love.
Water running down my back. I place myself back on that day. I was coming a few days off an irrational argument that irritated my effusing nerves. Dorian had died the previous week from a drug overdose. I wasn’t handling anything all that well and this room often had a very abusive lifestyle coach punching the starving soul. There was a need to get through the day. A need to put on that happy face and trick the world, even through Zoom, into believing that I was okay. Something about oversleeping was enough to tip me into what I’ll just describe as “the worst of it.”
My jaw hurt for three consecutive days. Even if my teeth weren’t loose, certain chewing patterns revealed sensitivity, where the gums stung from light impact. Even in lethargy, I had taken pride in weight loss. It didn’t put me at a “healthy” weight, but I was closer to the images I desired. Not by much, but people didn’t grow immediately concerned. To hell with the pains in my chest. I could make it through the day.
Those healed. Even if I sometimes feel like the abrasions created skin conditions, most symptoms faded over months. At the time, this was what I wanted. I needed that sense of feeling from the dark corners of a pandemic looking to have no end. I was doomed to be homeward bound, paranoid that if I stepped outside I would risk being driven to a hospital with 0% capacity, dying in an ambulance or, worse yet, not even picked up due to shortages. Staying on top of the news was important, but it was not helping a damn bit.
With all of this in mind, I run my hand down my arms. Even if the previously described behavior had been coping mechanisms through various points of my life, the one I was touching wasn’t. As a right hander, I notice the scars on my left first. I lost count midway through the ordeal. They weren’t deep, but deep enough for the sensation I wanted. Sixteen times over three months, I experienced a new form of addiction, more the lore of emo songs and Catherine Hardwicke’s Thirteen (2003). Remembering that film, I tried to brush off a particularly graphic scene in the past but now found myself able to tolerate it. I thought of Jules Vaughn in the opening episode of Euphoria, of pictures I had seen online. Confirmation bias at its finest.
Those faded… mostly. Of the sixteen, only four or five are noticeable, appearing as discolored skin. Your arm plays tricks on you. Once it heals, it returns to being a personal secret. Any cry for help needs more creative means to be successful.
I move to the other arm. It’s where on April 26, 2021 I made the final move. My body sore, my brain unreliable, I see the lasting memento from that day. This wasn’t simple discoloration, but a certified bump on the bicep. It’s the type of thing that those who know would talk about being self-conscious during the summer months. The few times that it has come up, excuses emerge. It doesn’t consume that much area, yet it creates an overbearing desire for censorship.
Today, I rub it, remembering the anniversary. A scar alters one’s body, creating new levels of self-consciousness. This particular one also brings comfort. To run a finger over its ridges reminds me of the hurt, of something that may not be totally gone, but is less intrusive.
Turning off the water, I dry myself off. Another shower without assault or cowering from some mental breakdown. The journey to recovery may be ahead, but it’s important to remember where everything started.
Because it is hell. For however long, depression carries with it uncertainty that seems far more fatal during a pandemic. Death creeps into every social situation. Maybe you’ll be “sick,” or your friend will disappear in a week simply for standing in the wrong corner of a room. This was the period, a month before I got my first Moderna vaccination, where I honestly had no idea how to progress in life. I felt inferior, like everything didn’t matter. An issue with comparing oneself to others, especially when you’re used to being a secondary figure in most lives, is that you never feel worthy enough of that love and support, that you could always be doing better, that you shouldn’t be complaining because India just had a very bad COVID-19 outbreak with even fewer resources. How does your insignificant life matter? Huh, tell me that.
I cannot recall why April 26 was when I wanted to change. Moving forward, I was caught up in every bodily sensation from those three months. Recovery wasn’t easy. Certain days were regressions, but I approached them with the belief that this particular cut would be the last. By summer, it was easier. It was a miracle. My mood shifted from the brooding corners of an unkempt room to having a mental “x days without an injury” card being my own personal cheerleader. A week was good. A month followed and soon the only real hurdle was to a year. I knew that to get there I needed to actually work on healing myself.
Certain catharses came immediately. A tribute I wrote about Dorian saved me. I was constructively looking at my past, connecting dots, and seeking forgiveness from those I wronged. It was proof of concept that I could write again. More importantly, it was one of those few public pieces where I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to give in to emotions that could be seen as messy and sensitive. If I was going to be lampooned for my writing, I might as well offer something sincere, removing any false pretenses. I don’t know if it’s my best work, but it’s among my favorites of recent years.
Because deep down, this was a reaction to how restrictive I was with emotions. It’s the revelation that I have gone this far in life without anyone to be truly vulnerable with, to express sides of myself that wouldn’t be immediately judged, and simply recognized as a work in progress. To understand yourself on a lonely journey is difficult, especially when certain messages enter the cross-hairs. The message of needing to love yourself first is difficult without any reciprocation. The fear crops up again. As Bradley Nowell would say “boy meets girl, fall in love, get married and forget the world. Nine months later sweet baby’s on the way. Kiss them on the cheek and life’s okay.”* We’re supposed to crave amatanormativity. What is life without that?
*Sublime – “5446 That’s My Number/Ball and Chain”
I’ve been assessing what I emotionally want, and it’s a codependent friendship where I feel invested in someone’s success. To have a viewpoint outside of my own, and to feel loved. I want to meet that person so bad. I imagine that I’ll cry, clinging to them in relief that the decades of wandering are over. It may be crippling to finally hear those words of validation, unprompted, but I think I deserve to hear them from the right person (and, more significantly, in person).
I imagine the ecstasy.
For a time, it was easy to believe that void could’ve been filled by social media. To paraphrase Jules Vaughn, it was easier to be more honest and vulnerable there. Sure her story ended with a horrific letdown, but that codependence felt real. It becomes difficult to believe that anyone can experience real love online because of how fabricated it all is. It’s a feeling my father worked to bully out of me in high school – which is hilarious in hindsight. In front of you is a flat screen. If you’re lucky, you can touch with your palm and move your world around. Otherwise, you’re left with detached pictures of people. There is little sensory input save for vision and hearing. For those willing, there is chance to make these limited dimensions hold greater power over you. It could be an addiction, keeping you up on YouTube and TikTok until 2 A.M. or a dead phone battery arrives. Are those messages of love actually sincere or a marketing ploy? Is the person talking back being genuine, or is this some fabrication of a greater Matrix? What. Is. Sincerity? To break down code even further, what your immobile state is doing is staring at lines of colored text, shaped in a way that conveys something explicit. From there, when does a person whose aroma you never discover, whose touch cannot reach across the country, whose every tic is edited into a perfect beautiful amalgamation become real? The letters have meaning because, socially, we gave them such. Otherwise, this is our self-portrait, where The Magna Carta is duplicate to “The Bell Jar.” It’s just a page designed for stimulation. What do we do with that?
Coming to terms with this may have been the hardest part because there is so much to love about the internet. Twitter gave birth to a dozen casual acquaintances since 2020, including some that I grew more attached to than others. Control was difficult. The desire to be vulnerable with limits pulled at me. I loved those who were transparent, supportive, reflecting the light at the other end of a proverbial tunnel. In those hours of need, I sometimes yelled for help and, much to my surprise, they were there. A sense that even in my destructive vision of self, there was someone there to talk me off a ledge, not for the last time.
To all who have, I want to say thank you and I love you.
I’ve spent less time here, deciding to enter the real world for adventure. When the first vaccine happened, I felt this weight lifting. It could’ve been a placebo for all that I knew, but it felt… healing. I was finally getting that sign to begin looking toward the future. While there was an initial fear that the doctor would see my scars in concern, everything passed without conflict. It happened two more times and soon places like theaters felt accessible again. I even got to attend on campus classes at my dream school. The creative flurries were returning, finding interests returning alongside an overall brighter disposition.
All of this while openly admitting that not every day would be perfect. Sometimes regression is inevitable. Others I’m drawn into places like selfharmerproblems where I watch videos about recovery that put me at ease. To read those comments, to believe that others have been on their own healing journeys is inspiring. On days where I feel nervous and unsure, I rub that scar and remember what could be lost if I relapsed. The idea of starting back at zero seems nerve-racking, especially before today when the worst that could be said is that I couldn’t make it a whole year.
This doesn’t make anyone weaker. The whole depression journey has made me more sympathetic to those struggling with any addiction. Contrary to the idea that it’s painful, cutting is addictive and I encourage everyone to find a healthier way to cope. Even then, I know people who, deep in depression, turned to alcohol and ended up in the hospital. I know survivor’s guilt in a pandemic. I believe that 2020 was a unique event where we globally shared a traumatic, once in a lifetime disaster. Those willing to admit it can begin their journey of healing and I hope you find what you’re looking for. I don’t believe we’re all that close to an end, but we’re closer.
So today I take in breakfast, check some e-mails over a glass of tea and find peace of mind. Before I so much as did one thing on that lengthy To Do List, it feels like I’ve done so much more than I used to. Days of staying in bed until noon no longer threatened me. There are plans for a future: doing homework, releasing novels, and checking in with friends. My life is imperfect, but if the goal of a career is to preserve one’s existence with passion, then I’m at least doing that. I may never be the most successful writer, but at least here’s something to remember me by.
In some respect, I am still bruised. I still have those occasional intrusive thoughts. Some days aren’t all that fun. With that said, an effort to find better ways of processing has been helpful. The only advice I can give is prepare to assess. You don’t have to share it with me or anyone, but connect the dots, question yourself in a meaningful way. Are you happy with where life is heading? While you can’t always change or improve personal agency, there’s enough to create an identity that suits an envisioned happiness.
I want you to do what I have just done and look back on a year. What have you done in that time? Maybe it’s not external, but something internal that puts a smile on your face. It could just be self-actualization or regaining interest in a hobby. For me, it’s accepting what has happened and realizing that your depression can exist without having it be debilitating. It requires work and my heart goes out to those struggling, but it’s very much worth it.
To have laughed this Christmas. To have goals on New Year’s Day. Imagine that.
But the great news is that I’ve made it a year since many of these marks reached my body. That time since has been amazing, filled with memories and triumphs. A year ago, it all clicked. No relapse has taken hold yet. The early days were difficult, but there’s something fulfilling about being clean this long. It means that if I can do it for a year, what’s stopping me from doing it for much longer? Never say never with depression, but the constant quest for balance remains worth fighting. For this round, at very least, I have come out on top.
The front door opens. My day has officially started.
What a miracle that ended up being.
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