All The Pretty Boxes

I really wanted to die.

That’s not to say I was typically suicidal; cause I dont think I ever had the gumption to do it myself, but if it happened to me Id’ve been relieved.

For instance: I would never jump into traffic (although I fantasized it regularly) but should a car careen onto the sidewalk and crush me, well that would be just dandy. I definitely wouldn’t attempt to dodge it.

My dad did actually kill himself, although whether on purpose or not, depending on who you ask, is up for debate. I had the misfortune of being apprised of this new info at my greatmas funeral about a year later when my violent, heroin-addicted, woman beating, uncle cornered me and gave me all the gory details. I was so uncomfortable, only 11 years old, and completely unsure how to react. I just stood there letting him talk as I silently looked to my mom for a reprieve that wouldn’t come. Its 20 years later and I’m still waiting for her.

Dad died 3 days before my 10th birthday, and the day after he got out of jail. I was stoked thinking that he would be able make it to my birthday party. I couldn’t wait to see him. While my party did still happen it was the day after the funeral.

I was right next to my mom when she got the call. I remember it in bits and pieces, like flickering flashes in my brain. I remember knowing whatever happened, it would effect me the rest of my life. I saw it so clearly the moment my mom (married to someone else by this time) crumbled, like a child in the hallway. Life had drained out of her body or something. I don’t remember the words that were said, or how she told us. I just watched memorizing that bleeding feeling I had when it hit me, that moment I knew he was gone. I relived that scene, countless times growing up. It was the moment I stepped inside my head and out of my body. I started watching my life as if were a movie, comfortably detached, and I stayed that way for 20 years.

We’ve all had our tragedies. I dont know one person who hasn’t had a difficult childhood in one way or another; but depression isn’t counting or comparing scars. It’s not crying all the time either. Depression is the amalgamation of numerous symptoms that you might not have ever associated with an imbalance. With mental illness so greatly exaggerated on TV, and depression/bipolar sensationalized to the point of absurdity, it’s hard to know whether or not you’ve got a chemical imbalance or if your life just sucks, broken or just breaking. It’s a detriment because we can’t suppress, treat, or prevent symptoms that go unnoticed, or unacknowledged. It’s all the more difficult when you’re as detached as I had made myself.

“So, oh beautiful and wise Amanda, with heart so true, what are the depression symptoms”

First: Thank you, that was very sweet and very accurate. Second: I’m glad you asked. Depression is everything. From you sleep or dont sleep, to your inability to pick a movie on Netflix. Depression, can be chemical as well as situational, and often its both.

If it’s a serotonin deficiency causing the depression it can have the same exact effect on your behavior, physicality mood as the death of a loved one, just add some self loathing, fatigue, doubt, insomnia; anxiety etc. Read about symptoms online if your curious or concerned, but do NOT self diagnose or self treat; and no web MD!! You do not have tear Cancer and you really need to talk to an objective party. Preferably talk to someone who can diagnose and/or prescribe SSRISs, MAOIs or TCAs. This would be a PCP, Psychiatrist, or or your sadomasochistic gynecologist Dr Pokey McColdhands. If diagnosed treatment will more than likely be a combination of medication, lifestyle changes and possible therapy depending on the circumstance.

Now, back to all the hella good parts that are about ME! Although diagnosed with depression at a young age, I didn’t take medications. I just thought my lack of followthrough, propensity for addiction, impulsivity and general melancholia was the obvious result of a childhood covered in shit, (dead dad, not that attentive mom, violent sociopath big sister) While all of that definitely contributed to my disposition, it wasn’t the overall source of it. For me, the issue wasnt solely circumstantial, it was also chemical. I had to address the internal problem before even considering the external ones and I was clueless about both.

Again, having disassociated myself from my life back then, I didn’t even notice when all of those emotional cuts and bruises were gone. Somehow those painful, easy to blame circumstances had changed, but I was still broken. Whats more is that while my life had gotten better, my depression had actually gotten worse. So I figured it was high time I live by the example my parents gave me, hence my “Peter Hardwick” years. Opiates and booze became the crutch on which I rested my broken spirit. And holy fuck did it blow.

I could tell you story after story about all the drugs, alcohol, sex, jesus, politics, and cynicism I crammed into my body and soul to keep the depression away, but my guess is that part of my story is cookie cutter and pretty easy to imagine. All things said though, hitting my rock bottom wasn’t because there was nowhere lower to dig, but rather, that I was officially done digging. I simply said, “This is my rock bottom, I refuse to go lower”.

It was damn near intolerable watching my descent from afar, and the worse I got, the further the distance became. I knew I had to climb back into my body and out of my poisoned head. Otherwise I was going to end up like my dad or my mom, the inevitable rock bottom beneath my shovel.

Despite not looking or feeling like all those people I had seen on TV or in movies, I was still going to ask for help. That was just over 8 months ago and holy hell has my life changed. As it turned out, what I had thought to be a teensy bit of possible depression was, on a numerical scale, six times worse than a typical person feels on their worst day. That shocked the kitten-shit out of me. How could be this broken and not know it?

I think about it like this. A blind man does not wake up at 30 all of the sudden saying “Holy Shit I’m blind”. If no one ever tells him what THEY can see, the man wont realize what HE cant. In short it doesn’t feel abnormal when it’s all you’ve ever known. If you were to ask that blind man to describe a color, he could probably tell you echoes of things he’s heard others say “Red is hot, blue is cool”, but those words have no visual reference to him. Just as to those who’ve always been depressed, things like happiness, joy, or contentment are essentially meaningless. It’s sad that a lot of people operate under the misapprehension that the best they’ve ever felt, is as good as it’ll ever get. This is why outside perspective is crucial, with depressives, the bar for happiness is set so low, that some actually convince them selves they are happy.

I’ve lived broken, eyes without color 20 years, of my 30 year life. if you think Im going to say it was all worth it to get here, you’d be dead-fucking-wrong. I would take those years back in a second, but I’m also okay with letting it all go too

I’m on a SSRI called Prozac, taking 80mg day, and my whole world has changed. I see colors now. I feel joy. I feel like a kid seeing the world for the first time, and I’ve no desire to ever close my eyes again.

People are not supposed to wake up already overwhelmed with anxiety, regret, stress, pessimism, fear, fatigue and pain. Your head is not supposed to be your captor, restraining your optimism and burying it doubt, self loathing and resentment. The pain of depression is NOT normal, despite how used to it we’ve become. All of those gnawing, aching, deafening whispers you hear in that painful few minutes between turning off the light and falling asleep, that’s not who you are, it’s a symptom of a completely treatable disease.

You are meant to live in contentment, and peace. More importantly, more than anything else, you are meant to live in a way that doesn’t require constant self deprecation and unending internal war between who you are and who you wish you were. The distorted-fucked-up image of you as dictated by your depression is nothing more than a symptom. All of you who’ve been depressed all your lives have no grounds on which to limit your potential. You haven’t even met the beautiful, funny, happy, COLORFUL person you are under all of that blindness.

My son is hungry. He wants cereal. I pour him a bowl. I need a spoon.

I look in the drawer I look in the sink I look in the dishwasher I need a spoon.

Why the fuck can’t I find one! Where the fuck did they go? The cereal is getting soggy. I need a spoon!!

Why can’t I find anything Especially something so simple Why does everything elude me I NEED a spoon!

I never get what I want. The goddamn world hates me. This is so fucking typical I NEED A SPOON.

Fuck them for not helping Dont you see how much I need this? This isnt a game I NEED A FUCKING SPOON

I can’t stop searching Ill knock over the chairs I’ll throw shit everywhere I NEED A SPOON

I’ve never been so angry I kicked a whole in the wall I’m the worst person ever I NEED A SPOON!!!

This is all my fault I can’t do anything right I let my kid down again I NEED A SPOON

I don’t know how this happened I didn’t see this coming My whole world is crumbling I NEED A SPOON.

I give up I’ve done it again I can’t make it better I need a spoon.

I lay there, shaking, depleted and aching for drugs. It’s been hours since my last Vicodin, and if my body wasn’t already aching from the withdrawals, the excessive vomiting and diarrhea had me down for the count. I’m already convulsing in agony from the WDs and know it’s only going to get worse. In a desperate attempt at silver lining I tell myself I’m making the right decision. Though small, I do find a bit of comfort in the knowledge that I no-loner have to fear this day. I have to get some to rest cos I know the next few days are going to kick my ass. I close my eyes and try to sleep.

But I can’t.

Its day two now, and the bed is saturated in 24 hours of continuous withdrawal sweat. Toxins are working their way out through my pores; and i can feel myself soaking in them. The bed is gross and smells of day old sweat and cigarette smoke, it makes me sick, but I’m too exhausted to do anything about it. My whole body feels like death so I just lay there underneath my own sick and let the damp sheets cool me down some before I close my eyes and try to sleep again.

But I can’t.

I reluctantly open my eyes. No sleep still, and I’ve been awake so long that days have become indiscernible. Im calculating time in units of distance. Each second stretches out 100 miles ahead of me, and Im fairly certain it’s only day three. At this point I’ve become hyper-aware of every cell in my body and each one is on fire and screaming for relief. My skin feels like it’s crawling, my body is flailing involuntarily and it’s been three days since I’ve had any food. Fuck food. I want sleep. In an act of desperation I’m now cradling the bible in my arms and calling out for “gods” help. I don’t wait for an answer, I just roll my eyes and curse at silence as I pull the sour sheets up and over my head again, cringe at the smell, and try to sleep.

But can’t

Day four: I’m in the bathtub taking what must be my 5th bath of the day, though at this point I’m not even sure what day it is. The bathwater is scalding and I’m hoping the burn will soothe the “itch” in my muscles. It’s like the feeling you get when you take a deep breath that doesn’t catch; when your lungs are rattling and straining for air. That’s how every inch of my body feels. I can’t stop twitching but the bath is starting to cool so I reach for the towel and attempt to throw up again before climbing back into bed. I pessimistically close my eyes and try to sleep for the 100th time today.

But I can’t.

I open my eyes. I’m thirsty, and though it’s been days since I’ve gone as far as the kitchen I make my way to the fridge and guzzle down an entire bottle of Gatorade. I’m dizzy, and possibly hungry, so i nibble on a stale saltine and head back to bed. I get about as far as my door frame and stop short. Oh my god, It smells like shit. Since I’m already up I grab some sheets out of the hall closet and gag while removing the yellow, sweat soaked ones from my bed. It takes me a minute but I’m finally done. I see the remote I threw at the door two days ago and use my last ounce of life to grab it before crawling back into bed. The dry sheets make me feel a little better and I flip on some daytime TV. My hair is in my face and I pull it back into a knot so I can watch. Reluctantly I finish the saltine cracker and take another sip of juice before closing my eyes and trying to sleep again. I open my eyes seven minutes later.

Though far from empty, the house was excavated of all its former dignity. The walls that once played host to childhood drawings, band posters and prom photos were now stripped down, ridden with holes, and smeared with dirt. The floors on which amateur dance routines were choreographed and performed now stained and worn through.

No longer inspiring new worlds out of sheets and pillows or summertime pool parties that go on forever, this place stood hollowed and buried beneath 20 years of decay. 

 This was not the house it once was. No. This hadn’t been a home in years.

Its like a shell,  or maybe a carcass.

And like so many other parts of my childhood this too had become damaged and cold. It was far from surprising, but still the sight of my childhood home in such shameful disrepair sunk my heart.  

How perfectly symbolic.

How tragically familiar. 

This home, like my dreams, like my future, like my will to become anything more than ordinary, had fallen victim to my parents obscene complacency. What a shameless mess it all was. What a giant fuck up it’d all become.

Still in an effort to make some kind of peace, I found myself looking up at the wreckage, lighting a cigarette, and straining to remember its better days. 

“Damn,” I think to myself  "I used to be happy here".

Letting the acrid smoke fill my nose, I take a deep embittered breath, omitting one last glance back at the wreckage.