“It’s like staring down a tsunami in a raft”
It’s what someone said to me one time. Not really just “someone,” but calling them a “life coach” gives less context and more questions. He was supposed to be helping deal with my neurodivergence, but he was just another camera in my life for my mother to keep close watch on why I wouldn’t look her in the eyes. I don’t know what she didn’t understand—instead, she said “depression isn’t that bad, I dealt with it so you can too.” She seems to think of me less as a climber in a hailstorm and more of a biker in a light drizzle. But maybe people responded differently to my apathetic nature in my fight with depression. Some saw it as confidence, and some saw it as ignorance. Some even saw it as optimism.
It was resignation.
Because when I saw that diagnosis, I didn’t respond apathetically. I cried. I sobbed and collapsed into my hands with defeat as the weight of everything dawned on me and I realized how fucked I truely was. Apathy set in because I realized I wasn’t beating it. I noticed what I was fighting and felt ready to concede to it. The power I felt I had was ripped away when I realized that even with the knowledge, no option would save me from what I was facing down.
It’s been years now. At least 2. I don’t really remember. The meds stay by and are taken fairly regularly—I’ve seen what happens when I forget. My body feels numb and my mind feels slow and the rushing waves drown my voice till all I do is break down. Even with them, all they are is a paddle for my little raft. Therapy might have helped, but with my mother’s careful eye I can’t find the help I need without them getting chained to a room forced to report back to the overlord. For now, I’m “coasting” as my psychiatrist puts it. I’ll be just riding this out until things get better. Like they will one day, in the distant future.
But inside, I’m trapped on this raft. A worn down set of planks held loosely together by frayed rope, barely buoyant among the high tides of an ocean while looking for a land that may never exist. All I can do is paddle slowly hoping to find that destination faster. Sometimes the waves will crash and I’ll have to hold on to a plastic mast that shakes and wobbles with each hill I crest. And with every storm, I’ll find the top of a wave crashing down upon me sending me tumbling into the depths. I’ll cling to the paddle and keep sight of the raft, but every time with the muffled sounds in my ears and surrounding pressure of water, I’ll consider simply giving myself to the unforgiving sea. To sink further and close my eyes as I find peace in the ocean and fall to the surface without a sound.
And then as suddenly as I fell, I’d float to the top with a gasp and find myself scrambling back atop the raft. I don’t want to die—not yet. It’s too early. There’s too much to do. But everything I want to do has to wait until I get to dry land. And while lying my head against the soaked wood below me, I’ll fall asleep to dreams of waking up on sand with the sun beating down on me and all the people I loved surrounding me.
And then, I’ll wake up. Stranded at sea. Alone.