Ⅱ. Into the Wide Beyond

What an honoured life I have, to have reached a point I never thought I could get to, where my excitement for the future exceeds even my highest expectations. Terrifying, and gratifying: the rhythmic motion of my heart.

Our flat is empty in a way that soaks into my bones. It echoes the sounds of birds and cars and dogs on leads and families with buggies and hot air through our windows. Every room seems to absorb the sun, no matter the time of day. It meanders slowly across the sky until late at night. Some of that is the summer, but most of it is joy, which makes the light last so much longer. 

There's a tranquillity I've never felt enclosed within those walls. I sit on the floor in silence and absorb it through the mesh of my skin and synthesise it. It's impressive, in a way, just how much the safety of home brings me into myself and makes me flower. 

It's the simple things: walking to the shop, along the canal, the sound of the trains passing through, horn bleating. Unfurnished but so full. 

And now, there's a daunting question ahead of me: will it always live up to this? 

And if not, does it matter? 

Is it enough just to have it now, to cradle it in my palms until the time runs out? 

Moving out, I've freed myself from a lifetime of cramped spaces. This place fits me. The smell of paint like old laundry, keys on the sideboard, the sunlight on our copper-blushed walls. In time, my limbs will stretch and grow to fill this place like spidering roots. I'm only human; no space can hold me forever. 

But for now, this one will do just fine. 

Overheard at the Telephone Booth / On One End of the Wire

“Hi, Amy, it’s John.” “It’s a payphone, believe it or not. I didn’t want to wait until I was back at the hotel to call you.” “Not really. Don’t worry, it’s alright. I’ll be alright. I just wanted to hear your voice.” “Just keep me company until my bus arrives. What are you up to? Are you drawing?” “I can hear your pencil.” “I bet she’s beautiful” “I know she is.” “It’s probably the nose. Or the gap between the eyes. Nine times out of ten, you change one of those and you’re a lot happier.” “Well if it’s not the nose, it’s the eyes.” “It’s pretty. A bit more urban than I expected, but very quiet. Hot, too. I’ll be glad when I’m back in the AC.” “I’m heading back to the hotel. It’s a long story.” “It’s a long story and I don’t want to talk about it right now. Let’s just chat about something else.” “Well then, don’t talk. I’ll just listen to you sketching.” “You’d be surprised. Either your microphone is great or Spanish payphones are ahead of the curve.” “Amy, I really don’t want to talk about it.” “What do you want me to say? It’s a fucking body.” “...I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.” “I barely made it in the door.” “I’m not sure. It was so… stuffy, in there. I was holding my breath all the way through the foyer. They had me running up and down the stairs trying to find the right ward for a while. I didn't realise no-one would speak English, and you know my Spanish is awful.” “I don’t know. I couldn’t breathe. By the time I made it to his room I just couldn’t look. I couldn’t do it. I don’t know. I had to get out of there.” “It wasn’t a conscious choice, just… my body knew something was wrong so it moved for me and the next thing I know, I’m at the bus stop.” “I did say already that I didn’t want to talk about it. My head isn’t on right ... I’ll just call the hospital when I’m back at the hotel. I'm sure they'll understand.” “The hospital can wait. You couldn’t.” “I know he did. But now he’s gone. It’s just like… like a dummy lying there on the table. He’s empty… it messed with my head a bit…" "I wish you were here.” “I’m sure you could have brought the sketchpad in the carry-on. Maybe not the canvas, though…” “Are you happy with it? I told you it was the eyes. “Well the plane’s booked for Sunday so—” “Yes, I could, but the funeral —” “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.” “I know... No, I know... I won’t keep you any longer, my love. Besides, I'm almost out of change.” “Send me a picture of that drawing, when it’s finished.” “I love you too.”

Ⅰ. For the First Time, Since Fifteen

＊This post discusses topics of depression, mental illness and suicide.＊

After ten years of struggle, soul-searching through the catalogue of therapies and anti-depressants, you finally find something that works. For the first time in however long, you feel your symptoms alleviating, and slowly but surely you make your way towards something resembling "normal", the kind of level-headedness you've heard about but no longer remember. 

The issue is, no-one prepares you for the feeling of being without. 

When you tackle depression and anxiety from your preteens into adulthood, you suddenly find that you don't truly know how to cope with a brain that isn't constantly trying to implode at every turn. What do you fill your time with when, all of a sudden, you have the energy to do something other than lie in bed and despair? It's a rare topic of conversation for people with depression: how one tidies away the aftermath, the mess, the shards of yourself spilled on the floor, the shattered crockery. 

Depression drives you to lose touch with yourself in so many ways. It spends its time unpicking the connection between brain and body, which is why depression so often comes with dissociation, with apathy. It dulls the senses and pulls you deep into the core of yourself so that everything external becomes a movie you're stuck watching despite finding the entire premise upsetting, and the material dull. 

When I was fifteen, I attempted suicide. I remember so little from that time, except that I was truly sick of it already. Ten years on, it shocks me to think it could have all been over when it had truly barely begun. The weight of the world on my shoulders, the insurmountable feeling of doom that knelt on my chest and dug its fingers into my scalp. How I held on, then, through the next nine years unmedicated and untreated, I'll never truly know. 

It's been almost six months now since I started on a medication which has effectively eliminated all of my symptoms. There's still the odd flare up — the joys of the incompatibility of mental illness and hormone cycles — but for the most part, I no longer struggle with depression. But in mastering that part of me, I've lost something fundamental about my life. I'm a spider, used to the daily drag of repairing a broken web over and over again, only to find that the intrusion no longer comes to pluck apart the threads. I feel "out of business", old news. I'm a mother whose children have families of their own, sitting to the dinner table with a cup of tea, the peace a burden on my mind rather than a relief.

I am, suddenly, unnecessary.

So, what can I do? 

I'll throw myself wholeheartedly into my hobbies. No more countless hours lost to 'content', to ten second clips on my phone on repeat for hours at a time. This time, I'll be the one to create, though it's going to take a long time for that part of me to spring back. 

I'll put myself out there, no longer afraid to be seen. I won't hide my face, my voice, by being. I'll be comfortable in my existence, in the way my shape takes up space in the world. 

I'll spend the next ten years recouping all of that lost time, day by day. 

For the first time, since fifteen, since the pills in the pocket, I can sit alone with myself on a grassy hill and feel the peace of being alive.