It’s a lifelong journey.
Absentmindedly, I play with the tear stained tissue between my hands, folding and unfolding it over and over again.
“Baby, look at me, please.”
Silence.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
I flinch at the sound of the rising frustration in his voice and turn my face away. I can’t bear to meet his eyes, knowing that if I do, I’ll lose all control.
He reaches out a hand and cautiously but loving strokes my knee.
“Have I done something wrong?”
His words hit me hard. Feelings of guilt and shame ricochet across my face, setting my cheeks on fire.
He didn’t sign up for this. He doesn’t deserve this.
Still avoiding his gaze, I slowly shake my head.
“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”
I wish I had a good enough answer. Any answer better than the truth.
“Please, habibi, tell me.”
He’s desperate now. Desperate to help me. Fix me.
I feel myself falling deeper into my hole. I want to let him in, but I’m afraid of being a burden, or worse, disappointing him.
He’s been my biggest supporter, my champion, my advocate.
He turns his hand over, motioning for me to hold it.
No matter how much I try to pull away, he never gives in. He won't let me float off to sea.
I reluctantly take his hand in mine and he gives me a gentle squeeze.
He needs the reassurance as much as I do.
We’ve both been quiet for what can only have been a few minutes. He’s patiently waiting for me. He’s done his part with his words, now he’s encouraging me with his touch.
I sigh.
It feels so frustrating to be going through this again. I thought I’d beaten depression.
From an objective view point, my life is much better now. I don’t feel that overwhelming sense of hopelessness and darkness on daily basis anymore. Better still, I’ve been socialising, doing well at work, and keeping in regular contact with family.
So, what’s wrong?
Still clutching the tissue, he takes my other hand in his and gently turns me to face him.
It’s game over.
I know we can’t stay sitting in silence all night, even though he wouldn’t mind.
It’s not fair on him, and I won’t let myself be that selfish, despite my inner turmoil.
“I don’t know baby,” I force the words out in between soft sobs. “I just feel…”
I notice my defences weakening, softening at the edges. I let out an exasperated sigh and lift my head to look at him.
With a soft smile and a look of pure compassion, he tells me “It’s okay baby, it’s okay.”
Feeling reassured and supported, I curl up into his arms and take a deep breath in. As I exhale, I finally let myself go and melt deeper and deeper into his embrace.
Tears fall more heavily now as I let my thoughts race around with wild abandon.
No judgement, just acceptance. It is what it is.
A release.
Warmness starts to radiate through my body as I slowly come to peace with the situation.
It’s okay baby, it’s okay echos in my mind.
Lying there, bathed in the amber glow from our bedside lamp, I come to a realisation.
He's right, this is okay.
In fact, this is not a defeat, nor a weakness, this is strength. Strength in not fighting, not resisting, not beating myself up about the way I feel or the way I am.
I’m on a journey, and that takes time. Tonight was a bump in the road, and that’s okay. I remind myself it’s to be expected. I’m not invincible, nor immune.
With loving kindness and compassion, I’ll find a way to navigate these choppy waters. I’ll learn to weather the storms.
Anyone, like me, who has suffered with a mental illness like depression, will at some point come to terms with the fact that it’s something that will never leave you. It will always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce when you’re at your most vulnerable and least expecting it.
It’s a fallacy that our work is over once we recover from chronic depression. That, just because we’re in a better place now, we’re not susceptible to relapsing. Much like someone who has lost weight through dieting, to remain healthy, we have to change our lifestyles. We can’t get complacent and let things slide, falling back into bad habits.
For me, that requires maintaining a regular routine of mediation and journalling. My Step-Mother even swears by going to regular therapy sessions, like she and her friends do on a weekly basis.
You see, it’s not good enough to only fight the fire once you see the flames. We have to start with the embers, the smoke.
We have to become more self-aware, more responsive to our moods. More accepting and self-compassionate.
Because, sometimes we may just feel low, like I was in the story I described in this essay, for no real reason at all.
And that’s okay.
Once we know ourselves better, we will be better equipped at deciphering whether to dig deeper for an underlying cause or to just let it go.
It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.
Photo credit: Ricardo Santos Photographer
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