Drowning on Dry Land

Standing at the top of the mountain, looking at the lush greenery of trees  surrounding me and focusing on the waterfall off in the distance, I realize I made it!  I made the climb! I began to tear up. 

One year earlier: 

The millisecond right after I stir and am awakened, right before my eyes shoot open, is one of the guaranteed great moments of my day. I don’t know where I am, who I am, and I feel a blank slate of emotion.

Then it all goes to shit when the plethora of feelings flood in, the anger at being alive, the sadness of having to go through another day, the joy of knowing God has let me live to see another day and the grief of wondering the reason why. 

I think of pills, swallowing pills, downing it with a good bottle of Pinot Noir.  Maybe I should let myself succumb to the darkness and vanish from existence?  

Soon afterward, after I try to remove the scowl from my face and internally repeat that I must be here for some reason, another great moment of my day soon occurs. My dog, a medium-sized mutt, hearing me stir, rushes over to put his paws on the side of my bed, hoping for me to pet him, play with him, and feed him. No matter what, he is always happy to see me, throwing himself out of his own little doggy bed. It is weird to be in awe of a dog? He eats the same thing day after day, spends most of his time surrounded by the little yard and house we live in, and his routine is almost always the same, yet he is excited to see me, to be awake for another day. He is the reason why I actually hoist myself out of bed.

“Okay, glad to see you’re excited I’m awake,” I say on my feet know, bending down to pet him underneath his belly. “Let’s go get some food and then I have to get ready for work.”

On the bed, my husband still sleeps, snoring, probably happy that I leave for work before him because he doesn’t understand why I am so down. I tried to explain to him the heavy weight on my shoulders, the storm always worsening in my head, the drowning sensation in my throat that has me gasping for air, but my explanations elude him. “It’s not that bad,” he would say, and me, giving up, would nod my head, displaying a half smile and say for his reassurance, “of course honey, it’s not. I will be more positive.”

I quickly pour food into the dog’s bowl, check to make sure he has water, and then hop into the shower. It’s 5am, and I have half an hour before I must take the 60 mile commute to work on the train. I remind myself that I have time to catch up on emails and read the news and stare blankly into the darkened sky, but my mind is saddened that I just can’t go back to sleep and slip into semiconscious.

I think of pills again, swallowing pills, sinking into oblivion.  I could just fade away and be free.

On the train, I halfway hope it derails. The paper would read: Train Derailment. One Fatality. Or maybe someone would try to take over the train using a gun and I would throw my body in front of the conductor, taking a bullet for him and dying a hero. No longer would I have to pry myself out of bed and figure even nothingness would be better than the drab day to day living I endure.

I’m into work by 7am, coming into the office with a flood of calls and emails and mail from people who are angry. I work for a complaint department. I feel saddened that I unwisely chose my degree in something that did not yield many opportunities, that I lie to others about what I actually do for work, but remember that I have excellent benefits and can retire well at age 65. “Just 30 years to go,” I think to myself.

I hate talking to customers at work. My retail smile is plastered consistently on my face, yet my eyes have no sparkle in them. I am internally yelling at the customers to “go away,” so that I can be alone at my desk and imagine all the ways that I could die or be killed. I envision someone bent on exacting revenge against some perceived slight, getting into the building and through the metal detectors with a gun, pulling the trigger right at my head before I even know what has happened.

The day is long and I eat chocolates, pastries, and potato chips at my desk. I struggle daily with eating better, but something pops into my head about how it doesn’t matter and that I deserve these foods for just making it here, for even being awake. Not yet overweight, but I’m thinking it must be a matter of months or years before I break my office chair with my weight and become one Cheeto away from a heart attack. 

“At least,” I think, “I will not be here.”

Lunch time is unnecessary as I’ve already eaten my fill of junk food, so I fill my free time with watching movies or TV shows on my phone, or look at exotic vacations or beautiful locations that I’m not sure I have the guts or money to take. 

After lunch, I fight the urge to sleep that unwaveringly washes over me, struggling to keep my eyes open and the retail smile plastered on my face, even when I’m speaking on the phone. A part of me feels robotic, answering what seems to be the usual phrases of “we can’t do that sir,” “we had to do that sir,” and “that’s not something we do here ma’am,”.” The complaints all form into one monstrous blob, in which I can no longer identify one person from the next to the next to the next. All their stories all the same, painting a picture of guilt, regret, anger, and sadness, and since I work for the company, I am a punching bag.

The company is a place in which everyone – even supervisors - starts gathering their lunch bags and purses and briefcases 15 minutes beforehand, use the restroom, and say their goodbyes so that not one additional second is given to the company. People who shuffle slowly thru the day suddenly sprint to the elevators and down to their car in the parking lot at Usian Bolt like speeds. 

The train takes me back home. I pass the time watching listening to music, reading the news, and fantasizing about not existing anymore. I press my face against the window of the train and stare out into the dark nothingness, wondering if my existence even makes a difference. I think of my husband, a man with surrounded by close friends and family, and think that he can bounce back quickly from my death. The thought is both joyous and saddens me.

After I arrive home, I forget that a bill needs to be mailed and I decide to take the short walk to the mailbox. It’s a warm night, and as I slowly breathe in the fresh air, with startlingly clarity, it hits me. I don’t want to die. I want to live. And maybe nothing will change right away, but I have the power to try. I don’t want to simply hope for things to change, but I want to find a way to make it happen. For the first time, in what seem like forever, a genuine smile creeps onto my face and stays there as I walk back home.

One year later:

I’ve gone to therapy.  I’m on antidepressants, trying new activities and meeting new people through them.  We are living in the same house, but I found a job teleworking that pays more money and I’m thriving, both physically and mentally.  I no longer think of ways to die or even want to die.  But most of all, I’m here at the top of the mountain, looking at all the beauty in this world and being so, so happy that I’m still in it.