New Year Low

Content Warnings: Mental health, substance abuse

“Have you ever considered you might be depressed?” 

“No,” I said, rolling my eyes, hoping it would help beat the allegation. 

Of course, I had considered it. 

I looked around my studio apartment. There was a small pile of untouched Christmas gifts covered in a layer of fallen pine needles, the sink was stacked high with dishes, and a mound of coats, gloves, and scarves littered the entryway bench. My sweatpants had certainly been worn for at least a part of every day in the past two weeks and empty mugs and beer bottles scattered the coffee table. It was somewhere around the 12th day of ramen noodles that I started to think maybe I wasn’t just lazy. Maybe it was something else. 

My sister Maria stood accusatory, with her fists resting on her hips, letting my answer hang in the air. The last time she looked at me like this was when I was living at her house after I graduated college. I spent a year traveling around the country and doing freelance work, while using her place as a homebase between trips. 

Maria was pregnant at the time and I wasn’t able to take her seriously when she’d get mad at me. She was at least a few inches shorter than I was at 5’7’, so when she had a full, rounded belly I called her butterball. Obviously, she hated that, but the sight of her standing in the guest room doorway, 8 months pregnant, being annoyed that I had borrowed a top (that she couldn’t even wear while pregnant!) made me giggle. I’d say “Ok, butterball, let’s defrost a little bit. It’s right here–don’t go into labor over an Old Navy clearance sweater.” She’d scoff and roll her eyes and say, “If I’m a butterball, then you’re a rubber chicken…with a flat ass!” Later, I’d find her watching some reality TV show and we’d share a pint of ice cream, laugh at the people who decided to be on these shows, and forget all about the sweater. 

“Listen, I’ll clean the place, ok? I’ve just been busy with the holidays and everything,” I said. She glanced at my TV. 

“You were on season 2 of Gilmore Girls when I was over here the other day. That was the day after Christmas. Now Rory’s graduating college. That’s at least,” she paused to do math in her head, “A hundred hours of TV! Have you stepped outside at all this week?” 

“It’s been raining.” 

“You need to get out. C’mon let’s go do something,” she said. 

“I don’t want to do something. I’ve been doing something all year and it’s the last day of winter break before I have to go back to work. I just want to be on the couch.” I lied. It would have been my last day of break if I was going back to work, but my termination letter was tucked into the stack of mail Maria was standing next to. 

“That’s exactly what a depressed person would say,” she replied. 

“Oh my god, fine. But I’m not changing.” 

“We’ll just go for a walk, we can stop and get a latte from that place on the corner,” she said. 

I didn’t hate the place on the corner and I was getting a caffeine headache so I agreed. I probably would have agreed to anything honestly, but I didn’t want to let her know that. 

I shuffled toward my dresser to put on a bra and found a pair of shoes that required no tying. We made our way down my three-story walk-up and emerged into the frigid air. I winced. We walked in silence, letting kids on scooters pass us by and ignoring sirens as they blared intermittently. We made it to the coffee shop, but it was closed–New Year's hours. We kept walking until we hit a Dunkin and then circled back toward a small park just a few blocks from my apartment.

Sitting on a bench we watched families and couples pass by, no doubt starting their New Year resolutions, based on all the spandex and slow jogging.

“This is bullshit,” I said. 

“What, in particular, is bullshit?” asked Maria. 

“This New Year’s shit. Everyone has a glimmer of hope that this year won’t be as shitty as the last one, but it’s the same every year. Everyone’s shitty life is just as shitty in January as it was in December.” 

“That’s one way to look at it,” she answered. 

“It’s the only way to look at it, we’re all miserable deep down,” I said as I sipped my latte. 

“Maybe it’s just you who’s miserable deep down,” Maria said. 

“Yeah, 'cause you’re a ball of fun,” I replied. 

“Ok enough, you know I didn’t say shit when you barely said a word to anyone on Christmas, and I didn’t say shit when you refused to come out last night, even though it was the one holiday Josh has had off in months and our only night without kids, and I didn’t say shit when you promised the boys you would take them ice skating and never did,” she started. 

I sat up a little straighter. 

“You have been miserable for months and it’s starting to affect other people. I’m worried about you, Dad’s worried about you, why do you think I’m here? Something’s going on so either figure your shit out or,” 

“Or what?” I snapped. 

“Or,” she paused, “I don’t know, but something’s got to change.” She sounded deflated. 

My first instinct was to walk away, flip her the bird, and head back to my apartment. Yell something over my shoulder like, “I don’t need this shit,” and leave her on the park bench. It took everything in me to sit there, when my body was screaming to flee. 

Who was she anyway, “oh I think you’re depressed” so I’m going to confront you about it? I mocked her silently. Epic plan, Maria. 

I didn’t say a word, but in my head, I was putting together a film reel of the past year. I had memories of the year – Fourth of July upstate with Maria’s kids running around, sparklers in hand. A night out for a friend’s birthday that ended with karaoke. Image after image flashed by and my presence in each felt fuzzy. She wasn’t wrong. 

I remembered May, when I found pills missing from my cabinet; September, standing on the street corner as my ex and I held each other crying; November when my boss pulled me in for a meeting about my performance. I didn’t care about any of it now. I didn’t feel anything at all. 

I wanted to feel something. I knew I should be feeling something but whatever synapses in my brain that connect experiencing something with feeling something seemed to be defunct. I observed, I was a spectator, I had opinions – no feelings though.  

“So you’re not going to say anything?” Maria’s voice jolted me out of my head.

“I, I don’t know–” my voice cracked. “What do you want me to say?” 

“Maybe that you’re sorry for treating us like crap for the past few months, maybe that you’re going to talk to someone and get help?” she said. 

I didn’t feel like apologizing, I wasn’t sorry. And I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. 

“Well I am sorry, I guess,” I mumbled, taking the path of least resistance. “But I’m not talking to anyone. I’m not doing that right now.” I knew that whatever was going on in my head wasn’t normal, but I didn’t want a clinical assessment of how extensive the damage was. 

The air around us was heavy and cold. I could tell that Maria wanted to say more, but maybe she couldn’t, or maybe she was afraid of overstepping. When we were kids, even when I was living with her, she’d call me out on my shit. She would be relentless, nagging, just like Mom. She would not stop until she got an answer. “What’s wrong, tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s wrong or I’m liking your ex’s Instagram post from 2012. Tell me what’s wrong or I’m calling Dad and telling him about what really happened to the van when we went down the shore.” She would not give up until I was explaining in detail the tone of a friend’s voice when they insulted me on a bachelorette trip, or the intricacies of my job so she could get a full understanding of why Susan calling that meeting, knowing I was on vacation, was personally offensive. 

Today, all she said was “OK, if you don’t want to go to therapy, I get that. I just think you should.” And maybe it was because she knew she couldn’t help, or because she was sick of my shit, or because she had her own kids to worry about, but that’s all she said. 

What felt like 15 minutes passed.

“You want to head back?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. 

We hugged goodbye in front of my building, she got in her car and left. I closed the door to my apartment and turned to look at the mess that was waiting for me, found my spot on the couch, and fell asleep.