Surviving the Storm: A Story of Depression

Content Warning: This story explores metaphorical depictions of depression and isolation.

I cling on — knuckles white from the effort, my fingers numb to everything except pain. The cold seeping in to every molecule of my hands, urging me to relent my exhausted grip.

I refuse. Not out of a strong act of defiance or bravery. No, nothing as thrilling or noble as that. I hold on because it’s the only thing I know how to do: It’s all I am. All I remember. All I know.

I have no idea how long I have occupied my raft, lost at sea in the middle of a never ending monsoon — the night everlasting. The abyss above, impenetrable to my gaze. The abyss below, briefly illuminated by the sea’s anger frothing over the edge of my raft — my home. This is where I live, because I have no memory of anything else, of anyone else. Not real memories anyway. I briefly saw seagulls, once. A distant speck against the black sky.

For all I know, my entire existence has been a never ending battle against the tyranny of this sea. I scream into the void. I do this sometimes, to feel human. To attempt to conjure up some sort of emotion other than desperation. My scream is barely audible to my own ears. The wind and rain and waves creating their own colossal sound-scape. One that a mere human can not hope to compete against. Like a lone twig, trying to outdo an infinite forest.

The sea replies to my outburst the same way it always does — with more fury.

The waves suddenly begin to rise higher and higher. I don’t know just how high in my blindness, but it makes me feel light-headed when I reach the summit of this liquid mountain. Its foundations never secure, ever changing. The inevitability of the fall is etched deep within my soul; for I have lost count of the amount of times I have fell. Each time, I’m shocked to find that I still, somehow, cling on.

I fall — at last. This is it. This is surely the descent that will nonchalantly evict me from my raft. My energy is low. I don’t know how much longer I can clutch to the sides. The fall is exhilarating. A brief flash of what it is to be human in an inhuman environment. Freedom, as I fly in free-fall, away from the safety net of my raft. The tentative grip in my aching hands steadfast as ever. It is fun, despite the circumstances. But good things don’t last. I don’t know how I know this, but I know it nonetheless.

My body slams back down, drawing the wind from my lungs. I try to catch my breath but inhale the salt-water as it engulfs my raft and I choke. I cough. I pray. My raft hears my prayers and it valiantly survives the tempest. It does it for me. Just like my raft is all I know outside of the storm and never-ending darkness — I am also all my raft knows. We are bound by a shared desire for survival. A shared instinct. The raft was designed to preserve life and life was designed to survive.

The waves keep coming. My raft and I rising and falling and hanging on for dear life. I can still taste the bitter salt water. I don’t care — it’s the only taste I know. Riding the waves towards the invisible sky is always intoxicating. Each time, I imagine breaking through the black clouds somewhere above and being able to clearly see the route to safety. Even just a brief glimpse of the stars would be cathartic. Each time, I am disappointed.

Stupid of me to believe the same actions will provide a different outcome. But, one can always cling to that single thread of hope.

The rain and wind are also doing their best to tear me from my grip. Each icy raindrop stinging my skin with its own agenda. On their own, easy to ignore. In an army of millions — overwhelming. The wind — stealing me of my senses, and teaming up with the rain and the sea to dictate which way I shall be thrown next. Unrelenting and invisible.

I’m delaying the inevitable, of course. I’ve known this for a while now. I know the bottom feeders of the sea are waiting for their feast. I know I will become a part of this vast nothingness and fade away into obscurity. The only thing remaining, with a bit of luck, will be my raft. Navigating this place, excised from the consciousness that occupied it. My body yearns for the peace and quiet, but my mind knows nothing else. I am scared of letting go — of surrendering. I’m stuck in this impossible space with no way out.

Between the waves and wind and rain, I hear them again. Voices. I am unable to make out any words, but their sound is musical. A harmony of barely perceived musical notes against the bleak white-noise of the elements. I always hear them when I’m close to surrendering. At least, I think I hear them. I feel their love, beckoning me to my real home. They give me energy. They give me hope.

But, not today. The physical exhaustion pales in comparison to the mental exhaustion — the loneliness, the noise, and that pervasive cold.

I close my eyes and let go.

The wind howls its excitement as the waves rise over me, ready for their victory. I don’t care, I just want to sleep.

I am submerged. The cold shock takes my breath away but I don’t panic. I acknowledge the sea and congratulate it on its win. And then — I surrender.

I don’t dream.

I awake to a strange sensation. Why do I feel so strange? Fear keeps me still.

Something bumps against my head, gentle. Like a kitten nudging its sleeping owner. I reach up, shaking. The sensation of doing something other than clinging on to my raft alien to my hands. I feel the rubbery texture and realise it’s my home! I climb in with some effort. Once inside, I open my eyes.

It takes a moment for them to adjust. They have only known darkness for god knows how long. Now there is light. Warm, life-giving light! I look up and see blue. Tears, salty like the sea that had plagued me for so long, trail down my face. I had forgotten what the sky looked like, what blue looked like. It is beautiful.

I sit up now. The black sea, with all its mountains and valleys and fury now a deep turquoise — gently swaying as though cradling me. No longer trying to kill me. The wind now a cool breeze that provides a perfect contrast from the warmth of the sun.

The storm has passed!

I spot seagulls, gliding effortlessly on the cool sea breeze - I knew they would be back. It is beautiful to me. The breeze and my raft start pushing me on the same trajectory as the seagull. I hear the voices beckoning me home again, clear this time — enhanced by the breeze. I’m heading directly towards them.

I survived. I have been reborn. And ahead lies abundance.