dippietheham

[dippietheham]

I did not want to eat today

I felt like I had been

A burden to the ones I love,

I had not earned my fare.

I did not want to drink today,

A single sip of water.

It felt like too much effort to

Upkeep a horrid lair.

I did not want to speak today,

I did not want to grate.

The nerves of others, who have their own

Troubles enough to share.

I did not want to cry today,

My tears were useless gems.

Emotion filled but worthless to

The ones who know not care.

I did not want to rise today.

My bed was like a trap

Of whispered scoldings, not enoughs,

With "What's the point"s to spare.

I rose, I cried, I spoke today,

I ate some food and drank.

I know that proper healing takes

Discomfort in repair.

I try to fight the inner scrat,

The voice of unkind lies,

Because of those who truly love,

The me that's really there.

But there will be some hurtful days,

The past will rear its head.

Like adder roused, and viper soused,

It'll glare and hiss how dare.

The road ahead is filled with doubt,

And questions everywhere.

But I'll still try to speak the pain,

And hope to clear the air.

That even if I cannot eat,

Or drink, or cry, or speak.

There's something in the heart of me,

That wants to live out where

It's okay to be heard, and cry,

It's okay to have pain.

It matters not the past or present,

It's okay to despair.

It's okay to have all those things,

But it's also good to have,

A clearer grasp on life itself,

That's sitting just right there.

So come with me, to eat and drink,

To cry and share our pain.

And hope we might, in tears, reveal,

The life that's waiting fair.

For God the Son will one day come,

To wipe away our tears.

And on that day, His precious name

Messiah, we'll all declare.

But even if you don't believe

The future can look bright,

At least allow the minute chance,

Tomorrow might be square.

Today let's try our best to eat,

To drink, and do self care.

One day perhaps, we'll be enough

For us to truly care.

[dippietheham]

I did a thing.

Maybe it'll help someone idk.

[dippietheham]

If.

If I could, I'd lie down on the floor, Curling up like a shrimp, That's past its best before, Smelling slightly funky, Dead inside, Unfeeling, Unthinking.

If I could, I'd never have to eat. Food would be ashes, Falling from the sky. Predigested sewage, Plopping into pipes, Away from me, Passing me.

If I could, I'd never leave the house. Never move, From the spot, Things pass me by, Cobwebs befriend me, Nothing moves me, Unfeeling.

If I could, The world would hate me, Clearly. I deserve it, I want to know, That it is over. There is no need to fight on, I am condemned.

If I could, The pain would stop, Just for a second. The tears would wet, The world that I see. The cruelty would pause, Just let me be. Just let me.

But I can, Keep trying to breathe. Keep seeking comfort. Be human, Be oh so human. Not be positive but not Fall into despair. Keep trusting.

And I can, Pray to a God, Who knows me and Against my wishes, Places a tray of hope before me, A main dish of love, A banchan of kindness, Compassion and care.

And I will, Keep loving. Try to be kind. Cry into my pillow, Let others cry into me. Try to love, Even in cruelty, Just try.

But today, I will sit with my tears, Eat with a broken heart. Mourn and grieve, Learn from my past. Lean on the hurt, Trust in the good. Get off my arse...

And go find some food.

[dippietheham]

Internal Monologue

I'm not enough.

I'm not enough? I'm not enough! I'm not enough, I'm not enough. I'm NOT enough. I'M not enough. I'm not Enough, I'm not eNOUGH. I'm not enough! I'm not enough... I'm not, enough.... I'm, not enough...

I'm not enough? I'm not enough?? I'm not enough??? I'm not... enough. I'm not enough. I'm not enough. I'm not... I'm not... I'm never enough.

[dippietheham]

Smogeol, the smog of depression

Have you ever had the experience of looking through clouds, or fog?

I had the unfortunate (?) experience of having to walk through an insect fogging before. I could have chosen another path, but I was tired - and it was during the COVID period, so I had a mask handy. I thought, it can't be THAT bad.

Spoiler alert: it WAS that bad.

Walking through that cloud of insect repellent laden smog was an experience and a half. As you enter it, the smell hits you like a punch to the nose even through the mask. You recoil. And you start thinking, this was a baaaad move.

Then comes the confusion. In the thickness of the smog, you can't see beyond more smog. All you see are tendrils of whiteness, or a wall of whiteness, depending on where you look. You can't see the ground much, if at all. A minute or less ago, you would be sure that the path in front was danger free, and wide enough for two people to cross. But as you step forward, there is constant fear. You mutter to yourself, steady there, and remind yourself that just a bit ago, you could see to the other end of the cloud of smog and the path has no dangers in sight. You need to keep stepping forward. The escape, if you want it, is to move faster ahead.

And then suddenly everything lightens up. You start to see colours other than the gray whiteness that has enveloped even your tastebuds. You start to hear without the dulled roar of the fog emitter that the worker had just gone on by with. You start to feel lighter, and your pace quickens, and then you're out of the smog.

You pause, look behind, and grin at how silly that confusion and fear felt. It was always just a single cloud after all. There had been no need to fear or worry and already, you're thinking, I overreacted. It wasn't THAT bad after all.

Yet, given half an option, you'd never want to have that experience again.

Depression is kinda like that. Except... worse.

---

There're a few key differences. No one chooses willingly to walk into the cloud that is depression. No one sees the cloud and decides, that's something I can overcome so let's go into it and walk out the other side. The clouds of depression don't rise - it's more of descending into its depths. You can't really tell you're descending, even if there are warning signs that you're in trouble because there IS a fog at chest level and below. And you can't see the ground, but you keep walking because you have to, or you're told to have faith in the unseeable future. So you keep stepping and treading, and then suddenly, like a sudden unmarked drop in a 5m pool, you find that you're IN the fog.

Flailing doesn't work. Screaming increases the sound bouncing back at you. You seem to hear voices around you, that might help you get back to safety, out of the fog, but they are distorted and you can't tell which direction to turn. You react by pushing away at anything that comes close because it might hurt you as it did in the past before the fog. You can't trust. You can't hope. You can't see. You're trapped in that loneliness with only your feelings and thoughts, and boy are they some thoughts. And feelings. Boy oh BOY.

I'm having trouble writing this because of how real it is to me. Are we having fun yet?

What happens, then, when you see a hand reach out to you? It's just a hand looming out of the gray wall. It means nothing. It could pull you to safety, or it could jerk you forward into pain. And falls. You can choose to take it, and sometimes we do take it, and the hand slaps us in the face instead. Perhaps, as they say, the slap was given with the best of intentions. Perhaps, we just need to wake up out of the smog. But we wake up and the smog remains while the slapping hand gets to walk away feeling like they did us some good. We just chose not to listen.

But when that hand is attached to a kind voice, or that hand is one that is known to be safe, or that voice tells us, we're here to help, and we're here to talk you gently through the fear because it IS freaking scary, what you're going through, it becomes a little easier to take the hand.

There's a lot of nuance to this of course. Sometimes we still slap the kind hand away no matter how many times it gets offered. Sometimes, we just stop everything and stand still because the fog is too deep and there is nothing to be seen in any direction. Sometimes, we whisper to ourselves that in this smog, no one will notice if I'm gone. Sometimes, we just run blindly, never minding the other bodies we hit, or the cuts and bruises that come from falling onto gravel and then still crawling and running because that is all we can allow ourselves to do.

But here's the thing.

I'm sharing this to explain, no one chooses the fog. Most people are pushed into the fog by the past or circumstances. It's not all hopeless - because sometimes, I see my wife and boys peering at me worriedly through the fog, and I reach towards them. I don't want to walk forward, because what's the point. But for them, I will.

And sometimes, it's God's warmth that slips through the fog. He hasn't chosen to remove the fog with a wave of a magic wand. Perhaps so I can describe the fog to others, so that they too, can seek the help they need.

Medicine helps. Medicine helps us to not panic, and look carefully at the next step. Therapy helps us to make sense of the fog, thinning it in places. The more this happens, the more I see things like my values, or the glimmerings of my identity. The idea that I can do something that matters to me, allowing me to step in that direction, instead of stumbling blindly into yet another hole dug by the people in my past, or dug by myself as a protection.

Because, hey, if I'm slapping myself, it'll hurt less when someone else slaps me by telling me how much they don't want me in their lives because I'm not what they think a good human being should be like.

The worst part? No one else SEEMS to be able to see the fog that is so real to you. You try to describe it and you only get confused looks. You try to explain it, and people just shake their heads and walk away. Only the kind few will sit, listen, nod, and then, placing their arm around you, give you a hug that makes you finally feel like someone cares, even if they don't understand.

---

So the next time you feel tempted to tell someone to just get over something, consider that you're pushing them into the fog, instead of helping them by working with them to understand why there's fog in the first place. Consider too, that people already in the fog, are not there by choice. Yanking on them and pulling hard will only injure them - because you, in all your good intention, cannot see the path that is ahead of them. You're trying to force someone to walk the path you're on. You never realised that they're on a different path altogether - and in a fog so thick you'd find horrible to taste.

So please, be kind. Please offer your hand, don't slap it in their faces. And please please, let them know you're there for them, not force them to be where you are.

Thank you.

(Images taken from Image by Elias from Pixabay and John from Pixabay because I don't have good fogged pictures.)

[dippietheham]

The tears came this morning. They welled up and then, Stopped. There's not enough Reason to let them fall.

The thoughts came this morning. They welled up and then, Yelled. They never stop yelling That I'm not good enough.

The pain came this morning. It surged up and then, Burst. Like a tide of soreness Wrapping around my heart.

The grief came this morning. It has always been there, Hiding. But it made itself known Because the past cannot be changed.

The tears fell this morning, They dripped like little gems, Hot. And then cold as They cooled off on my chest.

My breath hitched this morning. I still struggle to Breathe. But it'll be okay. Eventually it'll be okay.

[dippietheham]

Come, sit with me.

Listen to the rain pouring down outside our hut, for this moment. Listen as the water pelts onto the roof, trickling and plopping its way onto the ground in front of us. Hear the wind as it picks up, then drops, as sheets of water splash across in front of us.

(And ignore the sobs. Ignore the broken threads of my breath hitching. Ignore my lack of words, as my grief and pain lance across my heart. Ignore the little screams that escape, as I struggle to contain everything within. And fail miserably.)

Watch the patterns of the water falling. Watch as the droplets ripple with the breath of the wind. Watch the steam rise from your hot tea, and marvel at the wisps, as you take in the beauty of the sight of what is a normal downpour.

(And don't look at me. Don't look at the tears pouring down my cheeks. Don't look at my shoulders shake, as I struggle to contain everything in my body, things and feelings and thoughts that seem so much bigger than my already relatively oversized body. Don't observe how much I'm crouching over in pain. Don't look at how ugly my face is, screwed up as I push tears out my eyes, wishing so badly that I could cry from every pore from how much this is to bear.)

Come, sit with me on the chair next to mine, on this dimly lit porch as the rain continues to fall. Feel the chair shift under your weight. Feel the wind on your cheeks, and tilt your head up to feel the cold air cool down your neck. Close your eyes even, as you enjoy a break from the hot humidity that has been plaguing us recently.

(And don't touch me. Don't touch my face, don't touch my body. I'm a horrible thing, mired in my grief and misery. Don't tap me on the shoulder to force me to reveal my tear-ravaged face. Don't hold me by the shoulders and nurse my aching heart. Don't hug me close. Don't. Don't allow that pain to spill because in its spilling it will wash everyone and everything away. It's too much as it is. It isn't right for me to have anyone else have to hear it or see it.)

Don't hold me up where I can be seen. I don't deserve to be seen. Don't support me as I crumple. Let me lie, as I deserve. Let the pain complete its task of taking me down into a Hell that I can never return from. Let me be. Let me lie. Feel the breeze and let me lie.

Don't feel my saliva and my tears wet your shoulder. Don't feel me shake. Don't hear me scream. Don't give me the space to shatter into a million pieces and don't hold on for dear life as my psyche and heart re-form, only to shatter again in the next breath. Don't cry with me. Don't cry for me and what I'm going through. Hold your tears for I deserve nothing. I deserve only the worst. I deserve only condemnation, for showing my pain and for trying to talk about it. I deserve to shatter and never return from shattering because I am not enough. I am never enough.

Why do you still hold me? Why are you still here?

Please let me go - even as I cling on to you for dear life. Even as I beg you to stay - please let me go. Please let go of me. It's too much. I can't. I just cannot. I'm sorry.

Why are you still here? Why are my tears slowing? Why does it hurt a little less, even as it still hurts so much?

Please, just enjoy your tea and sit with me. Enjoy the view. Enjoy the sounds.

And continue to ignore me as much as I should always have been.

[dippietheham]

Who?

Who am I? A babe, for a while. Loved, but can you not be a child soon? So I can love you more?

Who am I? A child now, Loved, but can you show me more? Can you give me what I lack, What I'm missing, Calm my fears?

Who am I? Do not speak now. Do not speak, and spoil What I want of you, What I think of you, Give me more. Do not be more.

Who am I? A failure, a fool. A dreamer, to be crushed. Be more. Practical, thinking. But not too much, Emotionally caring But not too much.

Who am I? Care for me. Give all you have, Because you're mine.

Who am I? An ingrate, who hurts Me. How dare you Not do what I want, Fill the dreams I laid out, allay my fears. You pushed beyond, And that is wrong.

That. Is who you are. Wrong.

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I? A child of God. Rest for a while.

Who am I? Stop asking. Why is being a child of God Not enough for you? You pushed beyond, And that is wrong.

That. Is who you are. Wrong.

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I? You're loved. Child of God, Take your time.

Who am I? Beloved, Take your time.

Who am I? I am with you, always. Take your time.

Who am I? I am loved.

[dippietheham]

The child was happy.

He was told,

Happiness doesn't last.

Hard work does.

A tear trickled down his cheek.

The child was afraid.

He was told,

Don't be afraid,

Don't be a scaredycat.

A tear trickled down his cheek.

The child was angry.

He was told,

You're not allowed to be angry.

You're a terrible child.

A couple of tears...

The child was sad.

He was told,

If your parents are alive,

You're wrong to be sad.

No tears. An empty stare.

The child was confused.

Everything hurts.

I'm made up of so many

Wrong parts and feelings

The tears started to fall.

The child cried.

You're such a failure.

Stop being a crybaby.

Stop being ungrateful.

Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about NOW.

The child learnt.

He'll never be good enough.

Emotions are wrong and bad.

He only deserves punishment.

The tears... Are wrong.

The child hides.

The child hides.

The child is horrible.

The child is hated.

The child hides.

Till it hurts too much.

And the child screams.

And is heard

For all the wrong reasons.

The child is still wrong.

The child hides...

A tear trickles down his cheek.

[dippietheham]

The tears that don't fall

Often hold a world of pain

That cannot be voiced.

[dippietheham]

It's been a while since I've been able to express beauty in words.

That hurts.

[dippietheham]

Have you ever just wanted to be listened to?

Like just heard. No judgement. No advice. Curiosity. Questions about what you share will be asked. Your words would be rephrased and reflected to you to make sure you're really heard. No solutions though.

Would it help?

I tried that for a few sessions with a local university team. Trained active listening volunteers. It went pretty well, I think.

Would you have sat down?

[dippietheham]

The Grief Stone

Some days, the grief gets too difficult to deal with. On one of those days, I started to run.

Running helps. When you're breathing hard, fire in your lungs, you can't focus on the grief. You can't focus on anything but pounding the ground. You can't sit there. You need to move, move, move, or you'll not get home in time for Cheers or Friends or BBT or the Apothecary Diaries. You can't stop. You. Have. To. Keep. Running.

But you know. Even that doesn't help sometimes.

He found me on my knees, tears running down my cheeks, ugly cry-sobbing into the uncaring warmth of the trees. When I finally turned around to see his blurred form through the veil of my tears, I would have given anything not to be there. Instead, I hiccuped, snorted and gave a little scream.

He was seated on a stump, a little wooden staff laid across his knees. An unlit pipe dangled from one hand, while he stared to the left of where I was crying. I wasn't even sure if he was there because of me or just because the scene of someone crying in the midst of a forested trail is the perfect place to sit and dangle an unlit pipe from your hands. But at my scream-hiccup, he took a soft towel from a messenger bag on the ground next to him, and offered it to me. While still looking a little to the left of me, for some reason.

When I was a little more presentable, he stood up. "Come." He then strode away down a little trail that I hadn't noticed before on my many runs through this area. I hesitated. In the world of True Crime horror stories, following a stranger in weird clothes with a messenger bag and an unlit pipe down an unmarked trail is always recipe for disaster of some sort. But something bade me follow, and I did.

He led me to this little hut in a clearing. Again, very mass murderish kind of setup. But I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound. Even if it meant a pound of my flesh, my ghoulish mind whispered, licking its lips. But while the dude was dressed weird, he didn't feel weird.

He wore a cloak over a tunicky looking tshirt, and a pair of rugged cargo shorts. He was completely bald, with bushy eyebrows, deep blue eyes. His lips were thick and somehow you'd expect him to tote a bushy beard and facial hair down the sunken sides of his face, but instead he was clean shaven. The sunlight glancing off his face highlighted the shadowed clefts of his cheeks. His pipe stuck out of a pocket on the side of his tunic, and he laid his messenger bag on a wooden table outside the door of the hut. "Go on in then," he rumbled. "It's waiting for you. It called me to get you."

Get me. My ghoul giggled. How cliche.

I opened the door of the hut, not sure what to expect.

A dark, black stone hovered in the center of the hut. As expected, totally unexpected. I walked in, curiously amazed.

The stone hung unsupported in the middle of the room. Black as obsidian (I've never seen obsidian, but I imagine the stone was as black as that), it seemed to keep shifting in the light. Sometimes it reflected light, like a ebony-coloured, many-faceted diamond. Sometimes it was so dark that I felt like I was going to fall into it, and never return.

And with each shift, I felt something different.

"It's the Grief Stone." his deep voice came quietly next to me. I hadn't heard him enter the hut. "It wanted me to show you itself." He cocked his head to the side, in a listening posture. "It says you need to learn how to grieve, and that I'm to show you." He pointed to a seat I hadn't noticed before, facing the stone. "Sit."

I sat down in the seat. As I sat, I felt my body pushed forward, and I had to give the stone my full attention. Dark and pulsing, it looked at me as I looked at it - and I burst into tears. What I had lost felt so close at that moment that I missed it. I wanted what was gone. I wanted to go back to a time where it was still present - and yet I knew that I could not, and so I could only cry out of sadness and hurt.

With a firm hand, he gripped my shoulder. "Stand." I did. And the tears stopped, and the thoughts receded. He then gently nudged me towards another seat in a different side of the hut's walls. "Go, sit there now." I went. And I sat down.

This time, I found my shoulders hunched. I didn't even have to look at the stone directly to feel the anger. I felt the anger of regret. The anger towards the world for allowing this to happen. The anger towards myself for having failed to see the signs, grasp the chances, creating the loss or creating the environment for the loss. The hatred I had towards the loss itself, how dare you make me feel this way. The anger that the world had become this "new" world with the loss I faced. I wanted to spit bullets and I wanted to hit out but I knew not where to hit, or what to say.

The next seat had me wanting to change things. I couldn't sit properly, and I kept wanting to remove the grief. I wished. I wished hard. I'd close my eyes and when I opened them, I bargained, things would be different. What I had lost would be right there again, and I would smile and be happy and it would be alright. Things would be normal again and I would not have ever lost what I lost. I could feel it. I could see it. And then I'd open my eyes, and realise that the stone was still there, weighing down on me, and I wanted to scream because of how inexorable this was, how immutable this was. How painful this was.

And then it was over.

He had me stand at the door of the hut again. I gazed upon the stone, and now I could see all three seats at the same time. Sometimes some bits were stronger. Sometimes, the regret hung heavier. Sometimes, the anger flared even as I wanted things to change, and sometimes, I wanted to cry for what was gone, even as I wanted to rage.

And then he pointed out the door.

"That is the last seat for the Grief Stone, friend," he said quietly. "Life carries on and sometimes we don't see the stone as well as we thought we would or should. Or we run, until we no longer can. Or we find solace in trees and birds and things of this world until we find the solace doesn't stopper the grief. This seat is the trickiest, because we can pretend that the Stone doesn't exist. But we can also sit in this seat knowing that the Stone is there, and still choosing to carry on living life."

We parted ways after that, me thanking him for his hospitality and guidance, him nodding gently and then turning away. As I walked down the trail back to where we'd come from, I looked back, and watched as he lifted an ax overhead that he'd gotten from somewhere. I watched him cut some firewood for a while before I turned away again, and left, many thoughts on my mind.

I think I'm now a little wiser, a little easier on myself. The different seats around the stone flash up in my life still, but knowing how the seats feel like makes it easier to sit and face the Stone. It's also a lot easier to leave now, even if the Stone never changes. Because I now know how I can live with the Stone as a part of my life, even as I continue on in life knowing what I have lost.

And I run for my enjoyment now. Not to leave something behind that could never have been left.

Images from Pixabay.

[dippietheham]

Sometimes life just hurts.

Telling yourself it doesn't,

Doesn't make it stop.

[dippietheham]

It hurts to gasp-breathe

This haiku has no meaning

Gasp it just hurts to.

[dippietheham]

To Hope to Dream

Dreams (for the future, not the sleep ones or the day ones) are a difficult topic for me.

As far as I can remember, I looked down on dreams. When others spoke of dreaming or dreams, I sneered. What are dreams, really, but empty hopes, I'd think. I'd look on for a while, and then I'd turn my back. Whether it was a news article, or someone speaking about it around me. Dreams are useless. Dreams are for the weak and to hold out hope for the empty masses.

It was only after treatment for depression started that I finally understood my connection to dreams.

I'd look on for a while, every time it was talked about. I couldn't not. I had to.

It's a seemingly small thing but I wanted to dream. I still want to dream. I want to have something I value that I can work towards. Maybe. I don't know.

What I learnt in the course of my therapy was that my ability to dream had been quashed from an early time in my life. Dreams were bad. Horrible things. They were not real or realistic. They hurt more than they help. Get that job. Do that thing day in and day out that you don't know if you really like, but have to do so that your kids will be fed. Be responsible. Care only for what can be touched and materialised. Stick to what is safe because safe, while boring, can't hurt. Do what is approved. Do not do what is NOT approved because you are shame embodied for even daring to THINK that you have the ability to do something unapproved. YOU WILL BE DESTROYED. Your will will be destroyed.

Dreams were beaten out of me. Scolded and shamed out of me. None of my dreams were practical, useful or good. If I dared to dream of a future, it was not possible. I was never going to be good enough for my dreams. Ergo, I did not deserve to dream.

I never even dreamt of getting married or having a girlfriend. Daydreams, sure. Never an actual dream to work towards. I would not be good enough after all.

So when others dreamed, or spoke of dreams, or spoke of dreaming, I would scoff. But the yearning was what made me scoff. It was easier to belittle what others could do, because that was what I'd been taught. It was also easier to belittle it so that I could avoid thinking of that gaping hole where my dreams used to be. In turn I would belittle those who dreamt because they could do what I could not.

When I learnt of this in therapy, I learnt yet again, how hurt people can hurt others. For the sake of my own pain, I had looked upon others as less than enough. As with my anger, I had struck out at others, especially those I love, because I knew no other way to handle the uncomfortable feelings that were rising inside me. I had been forced to minimise myself for the sake of others growing up - I now forced others to minimise themselves for the sake of adult me.

No more.

Or at least try to be no more. Learning about my condition and how I reached this point, has helped me understand why I have certain reactions I don't agree with or like. Seeing those actions in my history being committed to me, has helped remove some of the sting of the extreme guilt. And enough guilt being removed has helped me to confront my own actions and take responsibility for them. This has taken the place of just feeling guilty and continuing the actions, because I knew no way to stop it every time the feelings rose. I can confront those instincts, remind myself that I am not that person from the past, and choose my next step.

Sometimes, though, when things get overwhelming, all that goes out the window and I hurt others. Again.

Now when people speak of dreams, I allow myself to hurt and feel empty. I recognise why it is that way. And I don't scoff or belittle.

Instead, if I am asked, I ask others in turn for practical ways that they can engage in their dreams. Low hanging fruit. Good first steps. I encourage the dreaming, but if asked for opinions, I go for the practical intertwined with the dreaming. That way, I don't scoff or belittle, and even hopefully contribute a little to the fulfillment of the dream.

But I'm not perfect. I still fall into old ways. And I can't dream still. I have little bubbles popping out of my head now and then. I can't help what I do next.

I burst them before they get burst by reality.

The strangest thing is that I finally have a few things ticked off that I thought I could dream of. I have a comic online, albeit with low readership. I have a published book. All things that God gave in the midst of my depression. I have a loving wife and amazing kids. An actual home where I can rest, instead of just return to. Friends who support and encourage, rather than tear down. And I've finally reduced my anger and my belittling of others by confronting my own fears and pains. All by God's grace, because the circumstances have been such. My own efforts alone would have come to nought.

Yet I still burst those bubbles because it hurts too much to even think that I have a chance of a dream.

So people talk of goals, dreams and futures. I only look to the next week. Or month. I can't dream yet.

But I hope maybe someday I will.

[dippietheham]

Many stories in depression are difficult to tell or even recall. So today I'll attempt a happier one - the 19th year of my marriage to my beloved wife, and 26 years since I, emboldened by her admission that she did like me, declared that I was genuinely in love, and that I wanted to be able to take care of her even if we were apart. And no, it's not our anniversary - that was in August, which we don't celebrate. We celebrate our first handholding, which happened on the 27th of February 1997, on a bench in our senior high school, overlooking the field.

Please don't follow our example if you're still in high school, thanks. I'm sure many of you can already see the irony in my declaration too, since she's now my primary caregiver. But I digress.

I still treasure the fact that she's someone I can talk to about anything under the sky. It might not interest her but she'd still listen before changing the subject, sometimes not adroitly, but never meaning to be rude or dismissive. We started out that way actually. I'd called her on the phone at the behest of a mutual friend because P needed a neutral guy's opinion on what was turning out to be stalker like behaviour of an interested party, and possibly a bodyguard if need be.

See, we hated each other at first sight. We found reasons NOT to speak to each other. The only time we took a bus together was by pure accident, and we made sure we didn't even look at each other. So when I made that call, I was pretty reluctant and also sure that we'd hang up after some desultory conversation. She had the same impression - we made it clear that we were only talking because our mutual friend insisted.

By the end of that call, an hour? Two? had passed. It was definitely more of a 60 minute block. This was before ICQ had even come onto the scene in our lives. (If you don't know ICQ, think Whatsapp for web but much much earlier, and without Whatsapp) And somehow I had actually enjoyed that call. She must have too, because the calls became a regular thing.

I remember sitting at my PC/desk where my landline was (again, before cellphones were common or even smartphones were a thing), glued to the voice coming out of my phone receiver. She would sit on the ground floor of her home, enjoying the breeze while we shot the breeze. Some of the conversation was serious - with what I know now to be attachment issues, I was crushing hard on many young ladies who deigned to give me the time of day. P would be the person I ran to, to let loose my tears and to talk about what we looked for in our potential future partners. We discussed our pasts and dreams. We laughed at silly jokes not meant to impress, but to simply laugh. We enjoyed each other.

Little hints helped us along towards the almost inevitable outcome of any couple that starts out hating each other. We talked about things we never would have imagined telling another person. We reached school earliest - by habit, but also to rush to spend more time with each other. Our mutual friend once caught us sitting down at extreme ends of the same long table, mirroring each other's actions without being aware of it. She laughed but didn't push the issue. She knew, before we did.

In fact, when I travelled home for the holidays, she was the one who prompted me to write a letter to P. I grumbled because who writes letters to their friends?? But I did anyway because I realised I wanted to, and that I had quite a lot to say. I wanted her to know what I was doing. What I talked to my parents about. She sent a reply with a photo taken of her with some friends celebrating her birthday. I can't say I didn't feel something weird. Maybe it was jealousy at not being able to spend time with my friends. Maybe it was more. (Maybe it was because the stalker dude had turned up with cake...)

But I knew I'd fallen for her when one day, I tipped my chair in the lecture theatre back too far, and almost lost my balance. I joked that she'd laugh if I hit my head. She shook her head. "I won't laugh. I don't want to lose a good friend."

I was loved as myself and I fell hard.

I denied it for as long as I could, which was only about a month. As with most parts of this convoluted (and perhaps damning to myself) story, it was a little thing that broke the dam. She choked while drinking some water. It went on for longer than is generally considered healthy in most people. I was definitely worried.

A particularly acerbic classmate remarked snidely that as a "brother" and friend, I seemed way too concerned. I was devastated (hashtag devo-ed). Someone had seen through me. I was about to lose my best friend because of stupid dumb emotions and a lack of self control. I had to rein everything in. So I did the smartest thing I could - no other option, really. I refused to talk to P after that, even though we had a few more lectures together that day.

It was really weird on my part, in hindsight. We usually sat next to each other and passed notes and doodles to stay awake during lectures. This time, I made sure our good mutual friend stayed between us, and I refused to communicate, while I communicated volumes with my refusal to even look in P's direction. Our mutual friend was more astute than me, of course, and for the final lecture of the day, she engineered it such that I sat next to P whether I liked it or not. I believe a threat was involved to ensure my compliance, but my memory is hazy.

As we sat, and started to exchange notes, P kept asking me what was wrong. I refused to tell her. Until she asked me if I liked her. With a large arrow drawn pointing to a doodle of puke.

I nodded.

She crumpled up the paper and threw it away.

Of course the story doesn't end there, and it has a semi-good ending. (Only semi-good because she ended up with me as I am, but you know.) I'll try to share more another time if there's interest.

***

I wrote all this because the last few years have been difficult. But in this season of trying to find myself again in the midst of so many painful discoveries, I don't want her to feel like I've forgotten how far we've come. We've come a long long way. I know this.

It doesn't make the journey less painful, but it reminds me she's worth fighting for.

Thank you for listening to this story.

And thank you, my beloved wife, for always staying by me even when I hurt you the most.