Zemira

It started with a growing affinity for my bed; a love affair that turned sour. I stayed longer in the stale hold of my covers, breathing in the musty stench of mold-infested sandwiches that I refused to be cleared out.

Then a day came when time stopped being a quantifiable entity and I stopped having any understanding of what I was doing. All I wanted was to sleep, to unblinkingly stare at the ceiling or to stay stagnant in the position I sat or slept in.

The sensation of life rippling beneath the surface of my skin ceased.

Since my last outburst, Dad's concern forced him to call for a doctor. Suffice to say, his conclusion of my ailment was correct. I was diagnosed with depression.

That was a couple of weeks ago.

Since then, a whole other week had passed, being subjected to the doctor's supervision for the sin I tried committing with my life.

It wasn't a premeditated move nor was it a reckless decision. I presumed myself to be a strong woman who knew when to ask for help. The day in question caught me off-guard.

Time passed in blimps. 

Harbored pain swept and corroded my iron-walled strength, numbness triggered my make-belief foundations to tremble. One moment I was detangling my hair and in another, my life.

A newer diagnosis - my depression had grown over time - didn't make much sense to me but Dad sat and listened to the doctor's rant.

"Since her mother's demise, then Tag's, and now with what happened..." That puny little man pointed a pen at me. "She locked her frustration and emotions inside. There was no let out and now it's harming her."

Thank you for nothing, doctor.

"If a volcano doesn't find a gap to escape, it spills out the wrong way," he said, proudly straightening his coat like teaching science experiments to fourth graders. "It comes out to burn and harm everyone."

"What's it that you suggest, doctor?" Dad's tension gripped voice broke my heart. "I want what's best for my daughter. I want her back, like the way she was before."

Like that was possible.

The solution they came up with was a place in another state, nestled in a secluded hilltop that overlooked the ocean.

Sunset Malibu recovery centre wasn't for an average person. It was for privileged women like me who never got their hands dirty or their clothes soiled. It was a place where elitists went for privacy and nirvana - not the original source but the boxed-up shit peddled to the masses during drug-induced music festivals.

Upon my arrival at the so-called heaven on earth where sunlight seemed to be less intense yet everyone was tanned to crisp, I sat wondering in my room. 

What was the purpose of spending millions on me when I would always remain damaged?

I was provided with a diary for jotting my thoughts, for keeping track of my developments; like there would be a miraculous turn of events and I would be happy again.

I lost count of the days and dates since I handed the green, leather-bound diary.

Talks helped. They helped in keeping the demonic possession of my numbness at bay. Most days went fine yet some days, certain episodes - of Tag's demise, of Leo's rejection - would replay in a loop with the sound effects of my unheard laments while I was assaulted.

In an attempt to erase those memories, I tried everything.

I shaved my head to toss away its inbred hold. I tried breaking mirrors that reflected a sunken-eyed woman who never smiled. I screamed and shouted in a soundproof room with glasses so thick that it took ages for the sunlight to warm my skin.

Nothing worked.

"It gets better. It always does," the group chanted daily.

I sneered at our happy yoga instructor and did my imperfect yoga poses. How was this supposed to help?

Sundays were free. 

On Sundays, there was no morning meditation, no mid-morning sharing session, no group therapy post-swim-pre-lunch and no healing sessions with weird-looking crystals in the evening. Sunday was to gather one's thoughts and walk around in nature - a five-acre garden to be precise.

Privileged bitch.

I had the luxury to sit and ponder over life while half the population struggled to get the monstrosity of the illness recognized before it was too late.

You were lucky.

Indeed. Lucky to have house staff who fished me out before I bleed dry in my room. I was blessed to have a father who loved me even when I tried to leave him alone in this world.

On Sunday, I sat on a swing in the garden for the first time. The sun was setting, the humidity was low. My forehead formed a mist, taking time to engulf the cool air that started seeping.

My journal, with a pen tucked in the middle of its gutter, gave me new hope. Maybe it wasn't always about the ending, the loneliness or the grime feeling of not having accomplished anything.

Maybe, it could be about fresh starts and newer perspectives.

I pulled up my pen. 

Click clack click clack click clack. 

I watched the blank pale-colored page staring at me. They wanted me to drench them with my sorrow. In return, I was promised solace.

So I did.

September 10th

I didn't know how to begin except, Dear Diary, I'm sorry.

Sorry for attempting when the thought of being useless and being a burden surmounted. I wanted to end the wrongs I committed, the pain I inflicted upon Dad and the rash decisions I took in my life.

Sorry to Tag, for holding onto him. Sorry to Leo, for letting him go without a farewell and making him feel our friendship was over. Moreover, I was sorry for what I felt for my mother. Instead of grieving and moving on, I tried blaming her since childhood.

Leaving me was an option she chose. She cut her chemo short, her radiation shorter. She didn't stay, she left. She left us alone to struggle with our lives.

September 12

Dear Diary,

I talked to my therapist today. He upped my medicine as I wasn't doing well with my previous doses. The stitches on my wrist have dried and turned to black and purple marks now. Oddly, the colors I loved in my attires didn't suit as scars colorings on my body.

My doctor said I should carry it with pride. I survived the ordeal.

I survived. Period.

September 20

Sorry for not writing sooner. The high dose of medicines had me sleeping most days. I was more inactive, more tired now than before my depression. Maybe I was taking it the wrong way.

Maybe I needed to talk to someone.

September 22

Dad came to visit. He cried on his way out.

I felt like I failed him again.

He has nobody but me. I needed to be healthy but I damaged myself. I damaged my soul and tried the easy way out. Seeing his reddened eyes and the bruise-colored bags underneath them, I knew he wasn't sleeping properly.

I needed to take care of him. I needed to be strong again for both of us.

You heard me, Diary. I'd want you to tell me this whenever I need it. You'd have to tell me every day that I could be better again.

Dad would be happy again and I'd make sure of that.

October 1

I didn't have time to write much. I'd been talking a lot in therapy though. I felt like I was shifting into my former happy self. The doctor said I was doing better than expected. He reduced my dose.

He suggested I took up activities to keep myself occupied. I knew just the thing.

For the sake of not jinxing it, I wouldn't write it but I knew what I want. Never before had I seen something more clearly than now. Never.

October 15

I relapsed.

Reduced medicines had me run into a spiral. I felt uneasy for the past few days but lied about it when asked. I lied to my therapist about feeling more feverish than what I felt. Stuck in a void.

I broke the TV in my room and tried to harm a nurse too. I just knew I wanted to get rid of the flatlining I heard in my ears and the vacuum I felt in my chest. I wanted to...

I didn't know what I wanted.

October 17

I felt better. Calmer. I was no longer chained to my bed. I was no longer treated as a threat.

October 18

The new dose helped. It struck the cord. I felt better, truly. This time, I wasn't faking it. I was telling the truth.

After a very long time, I felt like myself. My skin and my body felt like mine and not a suit I was shoved into. I felt free. I was breathing, feeling the wind over my face and everything nature had to offer.

October 19

Today was Mom's birthday. She was an angel and in the short time she had with us, she ensured our lives were filled with love and happiness.

Happy birthday, Mom. May you find peace and tranquility in your journey.

P.S. Neither Dad nor I would be joining you anytime soon.

October 24

I'd be checking out in the morning.

I'd be leaving the place that nurtured me for two whole months like a mother who cared for her baby in her womb. This place brought back the old me - the original me, the happier version of me.

For that, I would always be thankful

~

After a long, tiring flight, Dad drove me home. Dad walked me in. Dad sat with me and readied to feed me dinner. The crucial word here was dad.

Even after everything, he still loved me as if nothing changed between us.

"Dad," I held my father's hand, intertwining our fingers. "Can I ask you something?"

I waited for him to dip his fork into a piece of chicken and twirl it with some beans because dare he fed me just proteins and not greens. Once I chomped onto the serving, Dad leaned over, tucking his chin over his knuckle, digging his elbow into the table.

"Sure, go ahead."

My hesitation melted away when he blinked at me slowly.

"When mom asked you to stop her chemo, even though it would have given her more time with us, why did you allow it?"

Throughout my rebel phase and even later, I blamed him for this one wrong decision. I blamed Mom for forcing Dad to get what she wanted. I blamed everyone I could.

Today, I wanted to unload the burden of blame and move on the path of forgiveness.

Dad left his fork on the plate, straightening in his chair. 

"Because she wanted to. She didn't want her last days to be tired and bedridden. She wanted to walk and see places, to watch you grow. She asked for it and I gave it to her." 

His eyes welled up. Mine overflowed.

"Didn't it hurt? Giving her the option to go quickly."

"No," he whispered, squeezing my hand tighter. "I didn't want her to suffer. So I let her have her time with us in peace. After all, isn't that love?"

"What is?" I blurted. I had a vague idea of ​​love, of its intricacies and the pain it brought.

"Love, my child, isn't holding onto a person when they want to leave. Love is caring for them, praying for their safety even if they're away. Love doesn't mean the promise of eternity. It means cherishing each other even if it was seconds before the world ended. That's love."

Dad drew a deep breath but my lungs rejuvenated. He smiled, yet it was my jaws that felt the tingle.

"I loved your mother with no promise of her surviving more than me, kiddo. I love her with only one condition - to love her forever, no holds barred."

There, at that minute and second, when the clock struck ten p.m. on October the twenty-fourth, I learnt about yet another aspect of love.

It didn't matter if Leo loved me or not or if he was near or far. My love was beyond borders and promises. He might never love me but I didn't require that confirmation anymore.

Mine was sufficient for both of us.

~

Finally, one understood what love is... What letting go means...

Let's hope the other does too.

Every faced depression? Ever had someone who faced it. We are all in this together.

You're not alone. I'm there with you, right beside you.