Dearest, I Am

I’ll be waiting until you are ready. But, oh, my friend, how lovely it will be when you can finally say my name.

Written by Kaitlynne Rainne, Illustrated by Scarlett Thayer

I’d like to think she came on a specific day, at a specific time, at a moment when the moon aligned itself just right over the expanse of the horizon and the whispering winds deposited her gracefully on my doorstep. But, if I’m honest, her arrival was more of a realization on my behalf. She had been there for years, walking alongside me in subtle steps, shadows of greatness lined up behind mine. Do I think she is great? Learning of her presence certainly was not, but as I look back at the footprints we’ve made together, I can only conclude that she has helped me be great.

When I say I did not recognize her, I don’t think I could have even if she walked up to me and introduced herself. Instead, she disguised herself as mature and quiet, controlled calm that seemed impressive for a young child. At eight years old, I sat off to the side, a book in hand, or simply sat away from the rambunctiousness that would let loose on the playground. Sometimes, I miscalculated my luck and joined in on the fun, never failing to fall over and skin my knees. I found myself on the sidelines once again, oblivious to my melancholy companion.

At home, things were, well, things were. I had a roof over my head, food to eat, clothes to wear, and a room I could sleep in. It was normal in the way that things weren’t normal. It was a mask to what was a more deeply rooted mess. An entanglement of sorts that even if I were to try to explain, my words would fail me.But she didn’t.

She stood by my side as the years went by and at night when I’d hug my pillow to my chest and allow the rogue tears to slip down my face, I could have sworn I heard her whisper, “It’s okay. You can cry with me.”

As the years went by, she saw me grow up. She bore witness to the loneliness I felt in the quiet of the night and to the angry mutterings I whispered to no one in particular, all from pure exasperation of being pulled into the middle of another fight.

Out of everyone who knows me, she probably knows me best.

I was around fourteen years old when I saw the first evidence of her presence. Standing in front of the mirror, I tucked my yellow uniform polo into my pants and affixed the school pin onto my left collar. I lifted my head to check my appearance and balked. My eyes had sunken in, there was a deep hollow in them. Not terribly deep, but the kind of depth that required concealer to help me look alive. Just a subtle nod to exhaustion that threatened consumption.

“It’s fine,” I reassured my reflection. “You just need sleep. You’ve been up studying a lot recently.” Nodding, I accepted the explanation and turned around, grabbing the rest of my things to wait in the living room until my parents were ready to leave. I can imagine that she was angry with me for brushing her off as simple exhaustion. Who was I to do so? Certainly not someone with power to belittle hers. She had an imposing nature, ready to snap in the slightest moment. She held a strength I was envious of. Her eyes held this depth to them. Not in the way blue eyes reminded you of the ocean, rather, it was a depth that if you held her gaze for too long, you’d lose yourself on the way in.

Later that year, as a second semester gave way to summer, I felt her sharp sting once again. This time, she came in the form of betrayal, a loss that tore me apart more than I wanted to let on. It was as though she were making her presence known. “Look at me,” she said. “You can’t ignore me any longer.”

I tried.

During the day, I taught swimming. Keeping up with the children made it easier to forget. Laughing with co-instructors made me feel like I could relate to people again. At night, I would lie awake in bed, headphones on with the volume turned up to a somewhat obnoxious level. I valued my hearing only enough to be cautious of how much it was blaring into my skull.

Okay, now I must be honest, in those moments, I did see a glimpse of her. But as quickly as I felt that sinking feeling settle, I changed the song, turned the TV on, drowned her out with as much background noise as I could handle. In the middle of all the sound, I would pull a book and spend time with words. Anything I could do to give me a reprieve from acknowledging her, I would do. It was a sick game of cat and mouse, although, as for what came later, I do not know who began chasing who. Nor can I say my attempts at ignoring her were any better. In fact, they began to spur her presence on.

Sitting in my sophomore English class on a Tuesday morning, she broke me. I don’t know how. I was listening to music—don’t worry, I had already finished my work. I turned on my laptop, pulled out my headphones, and just vibed. I vibed until I began crying. Sobbing, really. My teacher looked at me with concern and gently took the hall pass from the hook on the wall and gave it to me. “Here,” she said. “Go take a walk. Get some fresh air.”

Who was I to do so? Certainly not someone with power to belittle hers.

I took it and went straight to the girl’s bathroom, locked myself in the last stall, and cried. It was the first time I had let myself feel the depth of the loss I had suffered. It was the first time I felt her hand on my shoulder. A cold and unsettling melancholy that was simultaneously comforting, so comforting. Things were never the same after I walked out of that stall.

I feigned recovery. Telling myself over and over that she was gone but even I saw past my blatant attempt at convincing.

This is the point when my memory becomes hazy, but I know that at every corner, things got worse. I isolated myself from people, a withdrawal that felt like solace. I didn’t have to put on a smile, try harder to learn a genre of pop culture, or even be a fully functioning human. Instead, I opted for sitting in the hallways and I read. Little did I know, history was repeating itself. A girl, on the sidelines, a book in hand, melancholy companion beside her. Only this time I recognized her, and I accepted her companionship.

At home, things were . . . well, things weren’t just “were” anymore. The angry screams became louder, I think a door broke off its hinges at one point. The silence that echoed after, though, was the worst. It was in those unguarded moments I felt myself turning in towards her cold warmth seeking comfort. She welcomed me with open arms. The summer that followed was when I felt her take over without warning. Not in a body snatcher way. It was more of a transitional shift that became louder echoes, echoes never leaving me alone.

“You call yourself worthy?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“She was right to walk away from you. Everyone else should, too.”

Her whispers kept growing in force. The insults that were flung at me during the day followed me into the night, repeating over and over, until I couldn’t hear anything else but ringing. It felt like she was mocking me. She was screaming now. Sleep became foreign and would sometimes only come after I exhausted myself with tears and, after every time, she would never fail to cocoon me in her embrace—stroking my hair, whispering to me as my eyes drifted shut. We began to share a silence that only came when two people understand each other.

In a world that was black and white, gray painted my vision. It all looked the same. Stifling insanity at its finest. I sought comfort in chaos. My life as I knew became an emotional and mental wreck. It became hard to be anywhere, especially when the effects she was having on me became trademarked as an “attitude.” I’m pretty sure she loved that characterization.

I mastered how to give her the attention she sought. To the point of almost losing myself, I gave her everything until I had nothing left to give. It was then that I lost myself. On most days, I refused to even look in the mirror for longer than necessary because I hated seeing her staring back at me. She was so deeply engrained that I wanted to cut her out of me.

T his was during junior year, early senior year of high school. I was sixteen going on seventeen and, in the span of seven years, I had experienced twenty. I felt, for a lack of a better way to describe it, weary. And, in a stupid assumption, I believed I could dismiss her, that she would disappear if I tried hard enough to move on. I began a ritual—for every motivational word I wrote I tried to chase her away. She fought back, hard, with vengeance. She began seeking me out in unexpected moments. I didn’t know then, but moving on was the wrong way to approach freeing myself from her.

Graduation came and went, and I found myself boarding a plane that September to go to an art school of all places. I remember looking around my room. Saying goodbye to a space that held so many memories, good and bad. As I walked out, I turned around and whispered, “You’re not following me anymore.”

Yet, she did.

It was a stealthy follow. She lurked in the shadows, not quite knowing what to say but standing in the doorway. I feigned recovery. Telling myself over and over that she was gone but even I saw past my blatant attempt at convincing. She came again, this time, I didn’t bother to shut her out. I let her sit next to me on the floor in the bathroom that Christmas and we simply held a quiet vigil. Words weren’t necessary. I think she took one look at me and felt sorry for me. I was sorry for myself too.

Not two months later, the world shifted and everything I had come to know was snatched out from under my feet. Who was there to catch me when I fell? She was. In the middle of a concrete room, four walls, and an open floor space, she befriended me once again and in lieu of my failed attempts previously, I left her alone. “You’ve got a friend in me,” she said. “But I can never give you peace.”

Her whispers kept growing in force. The insults that were flung at me during the day followed me into the night, repeating over and over, until I couldn’t hear anything else but ringing.

I hated her. Even so, I feel like hate was too much of a soft word. I felt repulsed by her. I wanted her gone. I wanted to be gone. Somewhere, anywhere away from her. But where could I freaking go? The world was shut down and I was stuck where I was. Standing with her became more addicting. Again, I don’t want to say that she body-snatched me, but she took up residence inside my soul at this point. We had lunch together, cried together, did homework together. Hell, she even took over my music taste: the louder the guitar and drums, the better.

I walked until I couldn’t walk anymore. No food, no sleep, I couldn’t think at all over the hum that took a permanent residence in my head. As it came to be, the spring semester gave way to summer, and I found myself moving. A new space, a new environment but I couldn’t even find it in myself to feel that joy. To say it got bad would be a gross understatement. Nights became blurred. The concept of time was thwarted. “What day is it?” I’d asked myself until there was a moment, I thought I’d never ask it again.

That night.

I shiver as I recall it. Numb is one of those words that seems too heavy, too final in its interpretations but as my eyes closed that night, the only thing I felt was numb. I couldn’t even feel her anymore. When I woke up the next day, I stood in the shower and when I was done, I sunk to the floor. I felt the flutter of the shower curtain and briefly acknowledged that she was right there sitting on the other side.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I . . . this is not good.”

“Gee, you think?” I asked, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

As we sat in the silence we had become accustomed to, I vaguely realized that there was no way I could move on. There was only such a thing as moving forward. I stood up and walked out. It’d been a while since I’d simply stared at her reflection, but I allowed myself the time to do so.

She looked at me, a soft smile gracing her lips. Slowly, she lifted her hand and held it out. Tentatively, I grasped it.

“It’s okay. I know it has been a while and I know now may not be the best time. But . . . I think it’s time for me to introduce myself. I need you to know me officially,” she said.

“Why? After all these years . . . why now?” I asked, a slight tremor cursing through my body. “Because it will help us move forward.” I held her gaze and could see the sincerity behind her stare. Those eyes that threatened to lose me in their depths now seemed to offer nothing but mere reflection. The truth. I held her hand tighter in mine.

“Dearest,” she began in a soft lulling voice, “I am Depression.”

I swallowed at her name. Yes, I had known it but for her to speak it outside of the confinements of my subconscious. For her to speak it so definitively . . . I needed time to adjust. Time to live with the truth of her identity.

From the look she gave me, I knew she understood.

Again, my memories are hazy because I spent the better of that time lying on a couch and getting sucked into a fictional world. But I do know that slowly, I felt her deathly strong grip on me relax. She coaxed me up off the couch when needed. I spent time reflecting with her.

For thirty days, we had this ongoing routine that became easier with each passing minute. And then thirty days became a year.

We’ve now reached an understanding between us. She can’t leave, she can’t simply pack her bags and catch the midnight train, nor can she live to consume me. I have accepted that she’ll always be a part of me. She’ll bear witness to me growing old, hopefully finding love, and, maybe, she’ll be kind enough to leave my children alone.

It has been a year since she last hit me and beat me down. In that time, I’ve realized that she is just as much a part of me as I am of her. But she is more than her melancholy beginning. She is a reminder of greatness; of an inner strength I would not have known had it not been for her. Behind this calm face, never-ending chaos is she and she’s more at peace than she thought she could give.

I lift my head and look her in the eyes. She smiles at me. She has wrinkles by her eyes that tell stories of weariness, of a life well-lived. She has a soft smile, one of recognition and relief. Relief at finally being known, and acknowledged, and given a promise to be taken care of in a healthy manner. I take a breath and shuffle a little closer, standing toe-to-toe. She extends a hand and I take it, her cold warmth now just simply warmth.

The words don’t come, the gravity of the moment sinking in. She knows my name and I can finally acknowledge hers. She smiles, a little more than before, her eyes glint.

“I told you knowing my name would help,” she quipped in a playful manner.

Laughing, I nodded. Who knew that after all these years she’d make me smile?

“Yes,” I agreed. “In knowing each other fully, we can finally give each other peace.”