I am depressed too often these days. Or rather, moments of depression rise up and crest, and then they subside until the next one arrives. A cursory look through the archive of my writing will show that I have used this wave, this tide, this movement of water metaphor, time and time again. I come back to it, and the cycle of language continues on.
I once told Colin that if I were a Pokémon trainer, I’d definitely train fire types. He laughed, and said, No, you’re obsessed with the sea. Water all the way.
My boyfriend reads my writing, which usually doesn’t faze me, but sometimes it does. Like right now, as I write about the one who might’ve gotten away, except not, except who knows, because that person is away and so am I.
Over the weekend, I had my first “real” panic attack. Nothing like the summer shocks I’d felt years before, when mortality would come to me in the night and strike me with a metal bat. No, this was a slow build, weeks of disgust and anger and fear snowballing into a full-body choke, numbness draped over and into me. I felt phantom pains across my hip, ghosts pummeling the soft skin there while the rest of my body buzzed, falling “asleep” even though I was fully awake, eyelids stretched out to their fullest height and fingers and toes curled and clawed. It was the ugliest I have ever felt, and I cried out in pain over and over again as the feeling was ripped out of my body.