A young depressed mind

I’m 31 now, and I find myself trying to remember how things were in my early 20s. There’s nostalgia for sure – I had a phone that could only text and call, and I’d often leave it alone for half a day knowing nothing important was waiting for me. In between classes at university, I’d march straight to the coffee shop with the large, never-cleaned sofas, and curl up with a filtered brew for $1.50 and some of the theological greats in literary form. I’d spend hours in this haven, barely ever studying for my degree, but studying how life could be, dreaming of a big life beyond Ann Arbor.

But what I’m not nostalgic for is the heaviness that every morning brought. A deep emotional pain that felt like a man sitting on my chest every morning. I’d sometimes spend hours in that haze, waiting to be snapped out of it. I had friends who were truly depressed, friends with bipolar, friends that felt the pain so strongly that they hurt themselves. I figured the everyday melancholy wasn’t so bad compared to these people, that I didn’t have the big D, just the little S (the sads).

Mornings nowadays feel like a clean slate, a realisation that I’ve lived life for awhile now, and many of the things I previously feared have happened, and I’ve survived it all.

I wish I could tell my 20 year old self that just because her depression looked different, it  doesn’t mean it wasn’t worthy of treating. Undermining it meant that I felt rough for years, and found myself in situations where I accepted a form of love and care that were hardly worthy of those words.

And perhaps my 20 year old self could also teach me a thing or two – how afternoons spent reading, writing, and dreaming are actually the stepping stones to making soul-affirming decisions. I’m sure she would also call me a twat when I tell her I spent four hours on my phone yesterday.

Frumpy

I had two skirts that I wore to my grandparent’s church a couple of times a year

The rest of the time it was jeans and an oversized fleece

Until I was thirteen and started running, restricting, putting on blue, blue eyeliner

I turned femme in a summer

Sixteen and cycling to school with skirts and heels

Buying vintage dresses that cinched the waist

The more I couldn’t breathe the better

We all started wearing the elastic waist joggers during the pandemic, didn’t we?

I could see my underwire bras for what they truly were: a torture device

I wondered why I wore my pointy heeled boots for miles when they felt so horrible

No more cinching, my belly was made to expand

I don’t adorn my body with clothes that don’t serve me

But I’m still not free

And in fact

I’m in my era of feeling frumpy

Nothing feels or looks the way I want it to

Nothing is a reflection of my inner creativity

I’m hopeful this era will eventually end

And that I’ll see beauty in the mirror

Beauty in my adornment

An integration of all the parts of myself

Sea chronicles

I grew up with lakes, far from the coast

You could swim and your eyes wouldn’t burn

But it was the summer of 2014 swimming in the Mediterranean, where I could feel the infusion of salt in the water lift me above the waves

I didn’t have to struggle

On land my stress, my joints, my low self-esteem are the tiny shackles that bind my movements

Because they’re so small, I sometimes don’t even notice

But in the sea I’m one with the flow, one with the rhythm of it all

The salt dissolves the shackles

And the seagulls watch me dance

To be a body

It wasn’t said outright, but I would read the verses that said my flesh wasn’t to be trusted, that it would cause me to stumble and sin.

Only my soul would save me.

And I loved that feeling, my soul being enflamed with the love of Spirit and community. It could carry me on days when I didn’t sleep, I smiled at everyone I passed, I prayed for people with distressed faces sitting around me on the bus. Being a lover of God was my joie de vivre.

I didn’t know how to be a body. I kissed a boy on our first date over a plate of hummus and falafel. It was quick, it was endearing, and I felt so special. Later at his house, his kisses felt like attacks, and he continued to touch me while I froze. I was 18.

The same situation would repeat itself over the years with different people. Sometimes it was only once, often times I went back to take control and convince myself the first time was only a mistake or misunderstanding. I could have been more clear, surely.

I’ve gone over past journal entries, and seen the blame I put on myself for not resisting, for giving into the desires of the people who pursued me. Praying to be stronger, praying to be pure and good.

Actually, fuck a prayer.

My body was clever, and in her evolutionary wisdom, she protected me. She waited until I was older and wiser, and had the space to process all the shit that happened, all the times my boundaries were infringed upon.

I grew softer and wider, as my body expanded to handle the stress. And of course my societal programming screamed against these changes, pummelling my psyche for the audacity to expand. But I grew tired of the fighting, and instead held my body with kindness and grace for all that she has done for me.

I know how to be a body now. And it feels sweet and juicy and real.

But I miss being a deep soul too, a soul enamoured with purpose and justice.

I suppose there’s no rush to be it all.

A day of anxiety

To be a good girl

One must not get into trouble

If you’re emotional, for goodness sake, do so quietly

The burp that escaped through your tears

Just solidifies our opinion of you

You are not fit to be here

I go out into the world

Looking to still connect and smile

With an open wound

I wave but they’re busy

I know it’s not me but I feel like an annoyance

And the tears squeeze past again

To have the confidence of a man

And just not care about what they think

To walk out into the street with muscles

And height and a square jaw

Imagine the ease

Imagine how they fold under that authority

I have to remind myself everyday I’m good

When I’m anxious

I stumble into loops

I’m bad I’m bad I’m bad

I hit my thighs so I don’t strike my head

It helps absorb the ache in chest

I’m good I’m good I’m good

I’m good I’m good I’m good

I’m good I’m good I’m good

I’ll be okay

My hands still make awkward gestures

It takes awhile to feel my body again

The hum of my breath returns

And sends me to sleep