My freshman english professor Mr. Torres, who would occasionally ask a few students to write down selected passages of their essay assignment on the board, walk over and then proceed to shred practically every letter of every written word and then ignite their cursed ribbons to ashes, was seated at his desk in front of the classroom with a stack of papers, now discussing mine in front of the class. "Someone here, I fear, might be suicidal," he said somberly.
He didn't mention my name and he didn't look up at me when he said it. But I knew. We never discussed it and he didn't treat me any differently afterward, not kinder or gentler nor harsher, not at all. I always considered myself fortunate that throughout the semester my words were never his kindling. I was too fragile, too easily combustible then. I hadn't learned to mask hurt, yet. That came much, much later.
That was the last time I wrote of deep sadness and desperation. I was too afraid of being found out in public that I smiled wide and brightly only so no one would notice my dead eyes. To this day my brain staggers and then halts to a standstill, lost, when it's weighed down in grief -- the same way a man clutching a grenade about to explode might panic when the lights turn off and he suddenly finds himself in darkness. Boom.
I haven't written a word since February, and a few people have asked me why. This.
These past few days, in the wake of Robin Williams's suicide, many writers have outed themselves as suffering from clinical depression; for this reason I don't find the need to enumerate its symptoms and various forms of treatment. Just know now that I walk among them, sometimes a bit faster, at times I lag and find myself at the back of the line. But I keep walking still, even when I can't find my legs.
I spend every day finding something to be grateful for. Every single day, especially during moments when I just don't see the point of looking anymore. I'm thankful I'm me, broken parts and all. I'm thankful I can see the fissures in other people and feel a desire to open my hands and hold them up, stop them from shattering into a million tiny pieces. I'm thankful I don't have a mean bone in my body; when I'm angry and let go of vexed words I feel worse about myself, never self-satisfied. I'm thankful that even on days when all I want to do is lie in bed in the darkness I find a way to be grateful for the speck I manage to spot on the ceiling.
I'm grateful that I finished this post because it's the first time I managed to write more than three sentences these past six months. I'm grateful that today I heard the spoken word poet Sarah Kay croon these lines, which capture how I feel perfectly. She promised there will be days like this,
"...when your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away."
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