Today’s featured writer is someone who is very important to me. We met in college at the Crossroads diversity retreat, and since then he has inspired me as one of the most thoughtful, reflective, and courageous people in my life. He has been through a lot, and today he writes on his experience with mental health, attempted suicide, and how it has affected the way he thinks about life. Without further ado, here’s Albert.
***
Still In The Ring
It was March 13th, 2015. Today, I join the dead’s silent march. It had become a routine ritual. For years, my depression would come and go in droves. Too often, depression gets mistaken for its not-so-distant cousin, sadness. Let me make this distinction clear. Sadness is the feeling of loss and guilt accompanied by waves of emotional pain. Depression is the complete, utter necrosis of the mental faculties. It decays the very succulent fruit we so hold impartially, living. If sadness were to be the whirlpool that turns and churns us so and spits us back in one piece, then depression would be the vast, icy ocean that drains and sinks you into its bottomless depth. No matter how much you swim up, the water will eventually get to you and you find no use in fighting and
you
sink, sink
sink…..
to……..
….nothing………………
I chose this particular day for a reason. There was a clarity to the day. The sun was shining, the students were mingling in and about, I was meeting a friend, and all the gaieties of a “nice, beautiful day”. The art of self-murder takes meticulous planning. It is no different from planning a wedding or a birthday. For all of them, you want the anointed day to arrive soon enough. On a wedding, you wait for the moment to kiss your lover’s lips. On birthdays, after the raucous chanting, you blow the candles to indicate the passing of another life. On suicides, you expect no less the same. For a such an internal affair, everyone wants it to end with flair for some odd reason. I had chosen my method to end the madness.
Dexter always welcomed me with a smile. There was an unfeigned jolliness in this man’s poise. As we sat down and chatted, I noticed the dilation in his pupils. He knew something was amiss. He continued to smile, but probed and questioned my words. I smiled back, assuring him nothing was wrong and the day was going quite “fine”. It tipped him off. I never smiled like that. His hazel eyes turned to a darker shade. He saw through my lies. I grew impatient with my conversation and ended it. We both said our byes and headed off separate directions.
My brother had left for New York on the weekend and left his car for me to use. I knew somewhere in his trunk, he held the instrument. I walked to the car and ignited the engine. I desired my last moments, my last rite, to be in the forest. Parking my car, I reached into the trunk and reach for the instrument. As I waded my way through the woods, one could hear heavy crunching as my walking slowed. The oppressive sun slowed my march. It didn’t help that a earthy odor accompanied me as I stepped through rotting vegetation. I stopped at an open space in the woods. All that was left was to assemble the agent. Carefully, I attached each piece one by one.
I put it slowly against the side of my head. A clear shot at the side will suffice. It had a metallic chill that coursed through my hands, fitting for an agent of death. Now came the most difficult part. Over the eons, life has subtly engineered us such as through development of our bipedal legs, our wondrous eye sight, and our calculating brain. Each of these traits meshed into one, single thread: survival. This single command allowed us to survive tiger, cold and starvation. Even if I were the present danger, it would protect me. Never before had my instincts been so sharp, so tintillating, so distinct. Overriding this ancient network was always my downfall. Every other attempt halted by this overarching, vigilant guard. My work must be swift.
Without so much as a thought, I forced my hand on its trigger. I was the aberration in the program. A swift purification was in order.
The sooner,
the better.
I pressed.
silence……………
I pressed. I pressed.
silence……………
I pressed and pressed and pressed that GODDAMN TRIGGER
silence……………
“What happened?”, I said to myself. I examined the instrument and an unnatural laughter erupted from my throat. Of course, I forgot to load the cannons. My laughter unsettled me. I didn’t realize I was capable of producing such a laugh. It slipped from my fingers and I fell to the ground prostrate in my amusement. Existence can be such a farce. It elevates to such a level of absurdity that you cannot help but chuckle at the comedy. As they say, comedy sucks the gravity out of tragic situations. Simply put, we can’t help but to laugh at our misfortunes.
Now that you’ve read my little story, you must be wondering why I choose to tell this? Sometimes it takes a brush with death to understand our morality. Some of you who had this encounter, I know you are out there. I will not ask why you hide, but know this, you are not alone. Also, congratulations, you have fallen to the lowest degree. It is not till we fall to our lowest pit, do we fully comprehend magnitude of our depth. This is my gift to you. Over a decade of fighting against the disease and I still rise and fall in this tumultuous life. Just as my reality does not reflect yours, so shall my ways of coping and battling differ from yours. It is my hope however, that you will take the next steps on your journey to confront the depression.
- On matters of Change
Life is joy. Life is pain. Life is beautiful. It took me years to accept this mantra. At times, my depression makes me think about why a baby cries when it slips out of the womb. Does it cry, knowing the suffering it will endure in a lifetime? Does it cry, knowing that it will die in the same helpless state? Many times, my depression would lock me in a state of paralytic inaction. First, the fatigue, then the anhedonia, then sometimes, the trickling suicidal ideation. It all boils down to the fear of living. Don’t be afraid of action. Don’t be afraid of change. Change is how we learn. Change is how we gain wisdom, after all wisdom translates to obtained experience. I implore you: Suffer soul-crushing loneliness. Jump with jubilant glee, Mourn in terrible grief, Worry with onerous gravity, Sigh in refreshing contentment. Above all experience, live, endure. What would life be without conflict? Conflict drives the narrative. It is the nature of a story to have an antithesis. Protagonist v. Antagonist, there you go. No conflict, no progression, no story. And will you fail many times? Absolutely without a doubt in my mind. Will I probably have more relapses? More ideations? More sleepless nights? Absolutely. However, I will seek change. Seek to better myself. Seek to understand who I am through my failures. The wise have taken all paths to foolishness to know which way is best.
- To kingship, to Ownership
Yes, over a decade of counseling, mentoring, swallowing a cornucopia of drugs, and confiding with close friends have aided me on my journey And to this day, I still receive the same help. Let me tell you, truthfully, no one can truly help you. They can guide you, but not HELP you. No one can fully immerse in your depth. You are the only one who can truly fathom the magnitude of who you are.You are the king of your own realm. You who have been coronated since birth to take on this mantle. Yes, depression may be part of myself. Yes, it has conquered many nights. Yes, I am deathly afraid of it. Know this, I am the king of my dominion and no other shall rule before me. And as king, I ACCEPT and CHALLENGE what plagues my country. The burden of kingship weighs heavily as do all tasks. It will take tremendous will, spirit, and determination to address the state of affairs. For me, that is all I had. If it meant summoning impossible willpower to even survive a night, then so be it.
- More practical matters
Now I move unto the matter of habits and activities that facilitate my daily fight against the illness. Out of everything I do, simple listening has been the most effective. Not necessarily do I “listen”. Listening is a misnomer for the activity. Properly stated, it is more akin to observation. To listen, is to observe with all senses. The human body is an amazing biological work of art. I enjoy my time with yoga because, I can notice all the different electrical neurons firing, ordering my muscles to contract and stretch as I hold the different poses. With yoga, there is also meditation. It helps immensely when I can suppress all other outside stimulus and focus only on digging deeper into myself. Even something simple as showing kindness to others helps immensely. If there is one craft everyone is a master at, it is hiding one’s pains/scars. People may forget your action and name, but they will never forget how you lifted them during a terrible moment. We are creatures of sentiment as much as we like to call ourselves the epitome of logic. And perhaps on the most personal preference, acting. While it is entertaining to tell a story, I relish far more the idea of thinking differently. For those in the craft, you know developing a role is an arduously long process. Not only must you think, breathe, and live in another’s shoes, you must continue this process as you walk away from the stage. To be an actor, is to immerse yourself as a practitioner of empathy. Many nights, I spent thinking in the shower about the gravity of a situation in a scene. How it must feel to be say a character in a Chekhovian play? How does it feel to be trapped socially, domestically, and emotionally? How it must feel as your character finds a way to pop out of their situational bubble? Or to be a king, like in Henry V. How does it feel to be suddenly taking on the crown of king? How it must feel to know you are leading a pack of demoralized, tired men to their deaths against an overwhelming enemy? How it must feel at all to hold such power over so many souls? I absorbed, understood, and related my own experiences to these people and realize we are all not so different.
- My Departing Gift
To all of you out of there, please keep up the fight. To my readers, I hope my story gives you a little glimmer of hope, however small it is. If all this flew over your head, that is fine. Take this parting gift at least. As the Chinese proverb goes, “Be not afraid of going slowly. Be afraid of being still”. To those to those who battle against this plague, know there is one tiny, timid boy who chose to take arms against his ills and says “I am still in the ring, Motherfucker”.
Femmegades 