She sat on the couch, and he sat down opposite her on a chair. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands clenched as if in prayer in front of him. She sat down, on the very edge of her seat, as if ready to run at the slightest need. She stared hard at the ground, feeling his gaze, hurt, accusing and wondering all at the same time, gore into her. The silence stretched on.
Why? He asked. Why? I dont understand. You had to know that we love you . . . Youve become another part of the family.
Unwanted tears came to her already red eyes, and she blinked them away, calling on the numbness to control her. She thought; he waited. She closed her eyes almost immediately as she first tried to speak, for the tears were still in her throat, waiting to come out. She choked them back, and strived for the calm, even voice that she knew all too well.
Have you ever been depressed? She sounded quiet, and cleared her voice so he could hear him better.
Yeah, he said. When my wife died, well. He shrugged. I still get depressed.
She grimaced a little. I mean, like, before you were married, before you had your sons. She didnt give him a chance to answer, and shifted gears so quickly that it was hard for him to follow the flow of the conversation. Depression, she said dispassionately, depression is something Ive done before. Im used to the masks, the control, the helplessness . . .
You wake up every day to voices. Voices saying the most horrible things . . . They whisper, and whisper, throughout the entire day. They say the most horrible things . . . They criticize everything you do, everything you say, everything you dont say . . . They say the most blatant lies, and you know theyre not true, you just know its a lie, because people tell you all the time. Youre not stupid. Youre not ugly. Dont call yourself that, its not true.,
yet the mantra goes on, and on, and on until you believe it. They talk saying you instead of me or I, but it IS you. You are telling yourself lies, calling yourself names, telling yourself you did everything wrong. And you know that youre sick in the head. Theres something wrong with you. Something horribly and wondrously wrong.
Your days become one long day. Theres no hope, because from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to bed, theres the voices right there in your ear. Chanting, chanting endlessly. You want to cry with the pressure of it. But no, crying is off-limits. No release, no let-up, day or night.
The voices haunt your dreams so you want to wake up, but they haunt the day so you want to sleep. It just gets worse and worse, a hole with no bottom, deeper and deeper, theres no stopping now, no pausing, no hope. You cant think about tomorrow, for the voices are there too. You start to get headaches, then stomach aches, then backaches until you dont know how it feels to feel good, or even fine.
Nobody would know though. Because thats what you say if they ask. Im fine, if youre okay, if its not too bad that day. Im good, if its one of the worse this week. You dont enjoy anything. The things that you loved hold no respite. Not music, nor friends, nor family, nor pets, nor hobbies. Nothing. Theres just the depression.
You know youre hungry, that you need to eat, so you manage to get yourself up off the floor or wherever youve collapsed and go to the kitchen. You take out something sweet, ice cream, and set it on the counter. You get out a bowl and think about the ice cream. Last time you ate it, it seemed to go sour in your mouth. It melted the moment you got it in the bowl, and theres nothing to top it. You curl your lip in disgust and put it back in the freezer. Theres nothing in the cupboards to eat. Nothing that sounds the least bit tempting.
You dont eat, you dont eat, you dont eat, until people start commenting you on losing weight. Still, though, still you dont eat, until people start asking you if youre hungry. Still, still you dont eat until people start worrying about you. You eat only when you have to, only what you have to. You do things you dont want to. Youll do it until it literally makes you sick to your stomach, on top of the aches already there.
Your mind is heavy, a boulder sits on top of it, its fuzzy and you cant think through all the haze.
Pretty soon, youre chanting along with the voices, and the only word theyre saying is suicide. Its in your thoughts all your waking hours.
Theres got to be some relief. If there isnt . . . well . . . Then you end up doing what the voices tell you.