A brown napkin glued to my face with tears, darker in the spots it absorbed my pain. My work pants stuck to my legs with sweat. I should stop buying polyester. A hot summer’s day in the middle of winter. Sitting in my car in my work parking lot. Other people’s weed wafting through my cracked window. Panting, choking, chasing my breath but never quite reaching it. Sobbing, screaming internally. It hurts so much. I guilt myself. You should’ve said something. You should’ve asked. You saw the signs. You witnessed so many fucking signs.
But I was there too. I was in the same place. A shut-in but always going out. An introvert but drinking, drugging myself to extroversion. Blinds closed. Phone off. Door unanswered. Sleeping for hours, days, weeks on end. It was dark, and we did anything in an attempt to glimpse the slightest light. Nothing worked. We did crosswords and Mensa puzzles together in silence, sharing quiet victories when we completed them. We ordered pizza and cooked boxes of Kraft mac and cheese. She scribbled to me on monogrammed stationery I’d see on the Ikea dining table when I woke. I wrote another email to my professors about why I couldn’t come to class two weeks in a row due to crippling, stifling, paralyzing depression. I wrote another neurotic, rambling email to my dad stating how everything’s gone wrong, but I’m gonna do better this year. Year after year.
When I felt numb, I told myself I’d rather feel misery. I’d split open another green and yellow capsule and snort it straight from the shell, singeing the inside of my nose. My computer chair swiveling, suddenly I was on a rollercoaster. I’d throw myself on the bed and let my head spin into calamity, till the catastrophe of my mind melted away. I’d lie on the floor and dream about flying. I wasn’t there. I’d fight so hard to feel as dead as I could while still alive.
A client who is perpetually overcome with depression, unrelenting trauma, undulating breaths, shuddered panic, and boundless tears enters my office.
When they gave me my own office, I was determined to transform it into something safe, something comforting, something unintimidating. I switched the overhead fluorescent panel lighting for warm spheres that glow dimly from below. I added a neutral rug, some comfy chairs. A woven basket full of fidget toys, a wooden shelf lined with books that actually help, and a stuffed toy, just in case.
“This is cute.” He’s a white man, 64 years old. Precious, with the most fragile of hearts. Life has carved deep rivers into his face for the salt water to flow. His hands have seen more labor than any I’ve seen. Anxieties and sufferings tumble out of his mouth uncontrollably. They’re rocks that weigh him down. He hunches, cowering beneath them. He tells me about his ex-wife. “She wasn’t as beautiful as you, but I loved her.” I pass him the box of tissues, “These are for you.” I laugh sweetly, giving him what he needs in the moment; a form of a hug.
He glues delicate white tissues to his face with tears and throws his head back for a few minutes. The rocks roll off of him onto the floor. They break into pieces. He sits up again. “I feel like a thousand pounds was just lifted from me.” His energy feels lighter. Happy even. “Crazy. Just being here.. being in your presence.. it’s probably this room. It’s so cute. Thank you. I love you. Thank you.” I didn’t do anything. Just showed him I cared. Showed him I was listening. That I accepted him. That I would sit there with him through it all. That I wouldn’t judge him. That I saw him as a human.
I walked back towards my office — eyebags swollen, nose red, trying to stitch it all in but busting at the seams. The security guard greeted me and asked, “You okay, shorty?” I couldn’t answer cos if I did I’d cry. I signed in and headed for the stairs. My co-worker bumped into me and made a joke. I didn’t respond. She made another joke. I turned around to look at her. She immediately knew — something was wrong. My face, an ocean. The nurturing mother in her said to me, “Come on, let’s go in here” leading me to the spare office downstairs. “It’s my best friend’s death anniversary.” She hugged me for a long time, as long as I needed. Her daughter passed away recently. She knew about grief and grieving, how it never actually goes away.
Wishing I knew then what I knew now. How are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it? I’m here if you ever want to talk. I’m at the store, do you want me to pick you up anything? Have you eaten today? Let me bring you your favorite food and a coffee. Do you want to hang and do nothing? Do you want to cuddle in bed and watch movies or nap? It’s ok to cry. Where does it hurt? Can you describe how it feels? Breathe with me, baby. I wish you were here with me. This song is killing me.
Sometimes I like to think I’m helping Helena when I’m helping my clients. When I talk them off the edge, she falls into my arms. We embrace, glued together with tears. And we hear each other, out loud this time.
