you got me here-
on monday with a too-large cup of coffee
on tuesday with a check-in call
on wednesday with a whistled theme song
on thursday with a full agenda
on friday watching shakira with a beer in hand
through saturday as a silent companion
and sunday when you reminded me to eat.
you helped me keep at it-
in october when I felt my most proud and worthless
in november while we sat as a family
in december when I embraced change
in january, surrounded and overwhelmed by the new
in february with a pitch and a cup of tea
in march after I sobbed in the theater
in april, two years removed from the best day of my life
in may as I learned about trees and flowers
in june with every rainbow you bought and wore and waved
in july with our growlers and paint-by-number
in august when fridays were dark but saturdays were hot and bright
in september when you asked why I stopped drinking coffee.
you are the reason I'm here-
in spring when I was born and recommitted to life
in summer when idle time would have burned hotter than the sun
in fall as I wrote my way out of my feelings (and you read it!?)
in winter as I sat freezing on the back porch.
thank you for being here
 and there
 now
 and then.
"I don't know how you two haven't killed each other," she says with a shrug.
I said it's because we're the same person.
I know why you are the way you are, because your train of thought mirrors mine. Because we're drawn to the same things, cope with the same sarcasm, try our hardest not to impose our neuroses on others. And maybe that's all true now, but what got us there, what kept us from killing each other until we discovered this, was trust.
I go back to day one--really and truly--joking about being afraid but never able to understand why I told you all I did. All the truth that poured from me in the darkened room. Trust?
And counting all the hours after just that one, I still think I learned the most then. Before I even knew I wanted or needed to learn. Why am I still the only person who knows where you've been? Trust?
I hated the last month the most because I was undeserving of it. I clawed crescent-moons into my skin for their betrayals, unable to admit my own. I broke your trust. They broke your trust. Again. And again. And again. I carry the guilt knowing you'd carry it twice over if you knew.
It's not to say you're blameless. That silence, bystanding, and minimizing didn't make my blood boil and trust disintegrate. Again. And again. And again.
Perhaps that first day was the only one we were worthy of each other's trust. The temporary purity of no history, no future, just a good judge of character.
Trust.
I know we're both trying to get back there. It's just a hill where we're one step forward and two steps back. Again. And again. And again.
We had whined, vented, and consoled Loren when her dip-shit coworker was promoted and then listened to her very justified complaints over the next two years as he proved that his MBA from MIT had in fact been bought and not earned. So when she finally replaced his ass as the first CEO of the company she helped build, fresh out of grad school, we celebrated. A lot.
She found out Thursday at 5:04pm and by 5:10pm the group chat stopped vibrating individual notifications and instead became one continuous buzz until I pulled over on my drive home to see who was dying to justify this nonsense.
By 7pm we were all two celebratory shots in and finishing off our first round of drinks. In any other bar we'd be a strange group--five women, spanning three generations, with seemingly nothing in common--but we weren't strangers to the usual McDonough's crowd, in fact, the bartender had jokingly counted us and informed us we were missing a friend.
Alyssa left us at 9:30. "It's a school night," she shrugged, ever the responsible one.
At 10pm, Shirley and Corinne were fading fast, so Loren and I each walked one home before reuniting at her apartment for more celebrating.
But what I assumed would be more chatting over drinks and then a midnight Lyft derailed entirely once clothes were removed and I found myself in her bed. It wasn't the first time, but was after what had said would be the last.
"This may have been a terrible idea," I laughed, honest and carefree, before pressing another kiss to her lips.
"Shh," she exhaled directly into my face.
We were caught in a game of childish pecks when her phone rang. She attempted to look for it and I scolded her silently.
"I have to answer my phone, I have a company to run," Loren responded in a serious tone but with a wicked smile. She yanked it out of her pants, still draped across the end of the bed, and showed me Cara's face lighting up her screen.
"Oh good. You're alive," Loren answered. She pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for me to be quiet, but then put down the phone and pressed on the speaker button.
I gestured what the fuck and was silently shushed again as Cara responded.
"I am! I'm sorry. The boys's baseball game went SO late and my phone died and gah! It doesn't matter! You got the job! You got YOUR job! It's about damn time! I'm so happy for you! Please tell me you're still celebrating."
"Of course I am! Erin and I are still drinking at my place. You're on speaker."
"Oh good. I was a little worried everyone had called it a night- most of your building looks dark..." Loren and I immediately made eye contact and she scooped up the phone. "I brought champagne! Someone come down and get me! I want to--" Loren took her off speaker and I hopped off the bed and began the clothing search.
"Yayyy!" Loren managed to sound genuinely excited while jamming the phone between her ear and shoulder to tug on her pants with both hands.
"I'll be right down!" she added cheerily, before hanging up and tossing the phone on the bed with a panicked "Fuck!"
"Can you grab the lights?" I asked, trying to make sure I wasn't putting my shirt on inside out and backwards.
"No, because then she'll see the light outside!" Loren hissed. "Fuck. It had to be Cara," she continued, hooking her bra, "Fuck!"
"She's going to know." I finished her thought, pulling the bedroom door open further to let in more of the hall light.
"I can't LIE to her. If she asks me right out..."
"I'll puke," I decided.
"What?"
"Just go get her. I'll take out drinks and when you come back I'll be in the bathroom." The wheels were turning quickly. "Had too much to drink. She'll mock me for forever but--" I grabbed Loren's keys and handed them to her with one last kiss. "She won't suspect anything if I'm curled around a toilet bowl."
"You're crazy," she called as she pulled open her apartment door.
"I'm a genius. You're welcome!" I yelled back.
I yanked open her fridge and found an open bottle of white. I managed to pour two realistic glasses as props and then locked myself into the bathroom in time to protect our secret.
Taylor had specifically asked me not to call him. She was hardly coherent what little time she was conscious, but I had been told âNo Tyler,â she had added as an after-thought, snapping her eyes open after decided I was to call her mother and only her mother. Â
âHello?â he answered, yelling over a nearby crowd.
âWhere are you?â I asked, checking my watch and calculating Seattle-time. 10pm.
âItâs Thursday,â Tyler changed the topic, âAre you alright?â
I knew heâd immediately be concerned. I was a creature of habit and called every Tuesday night, and it was, in fact Thursday.
âI canât- Ty, can you-âÂ
The background noise was too much. And this was something he should hear alone.Â
âHang on, Iâm moving.â
As I listened to muffled movements and other voices, waiting for my brother to return to the phone, I became more nervous and stressed. I closed my eyes.Â
You have to tell him.Â
âJoanna? That better?â
âMuch. Hi.â
âHi. Whatâs going on?â
I paused and considered how to begin.Â
âI cannot stress how confidential this is-â
âYes, yes, Madam Mayor. Please just tell me whatâs going on. I am a vault. Nothing leaves it unless your wife asks. Sheâs very mean and will get it out of me, you and I both know that.â
âNo. You canât tell Taylor,â I snapped. It came out far harsher than Iâd intended.Â
âJesus, Joanna, what is it?â
âSheâs hurt.â
âI canât tell Taylor that sheâs hurt?â He decided to be a wise-ass.Â
âFor fuckâs sake Tyler!â I heard him suck in a breath and when he wisely chose not to respond I continued, âSheâs in the hospital. She didnât want me to tell you but I need... Tyler-âÂ
It was my turn to fill my lungs with oxygen; a distraction from my eyes filling with tears. Â
âShe hurt herself. She really... she hurt herself.â
I was on my office line when my cellphone vibrated itself out of its hiding place under my 2pmâs notes. I swiped to end the buzzing--Taylor knew better than to call on a Wednesday--and continued to listen to my colleagues quarrel.Â
A minute later my assistantâs name took over my office phone. That too I ignored but suddenly felt uneasy. She also knew better than to call.
I turned to my computer, wedging the receiver between my shoulder and ear, and penned an email entirely in the subject line.Â
What is it? It sent just as she entered the room.Â
I raised an eyebrow and muted my end of the call. âYes?â
âSorry,â she whispered, âTaylor insisted she be put on hold. I tried to take a message. She said itâs urgent.â
I sighed, weighing my options, then stood and offered the young woman my phone. âJust listen. Iâll be right back.â
Outside my office door, I leaned over the desk and picked up her phone, not bothering to walk around and sit.Â
âTaylor?â
âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry,â she started.
âItâs Wednesday.â
âI know. But I need you to come home now.â
âIâm in the middle-â
âPlease.â The breathy, neediness gave me chills. âI need you to come home now.âÂ
I forgot to respond as I began making a mental list of who I was going to tell to do what as I ran out the door.
Iâm giving myself 100 days to write 100 things here. Will I actually write one a day? Stay tuned to find out. (Probably not. Iâm a procrastinator.)
Rules for myself:
1) No using existing material as anything other than a jumping off point.
2) No sequential drabbles on the same topic, person, or feeling.
3) Do not let a specific audience or lack thereof determine what you will or will not write.
I need you to know Iâm okay today. And I wasnât for a long time. I sunk so low I stood up on something really high, like some sick paradox I needed to make a parallel.
I had reoccurring nightmares as a kid. Iâd wake in an empty house and end up cemented into the basement floor, the ghost of the lady across the street would lock me in her abandoned house, etc.Â
When my mom finally got me in my bed sheâd kneel down and ask what my dream was about. I remember very clearly shaking my head and pulling my baby blanket closer. Telling her what happened meant reliving it.Â
âIf you tell me what it was about, you wonât have the nightmare again,â she promised. And Iâd tell her everything.
But now Iâm an adult; Iâm living a nightmare. I tell it as it unravels but can only hope it wonât all happen again.Â
My baby blanket is now alcohol, sloshed across my shirt because Iâm too shaky to take another swig. My momâs been replaced by the therapist I canât afford and all the monsters, the ghosts, the cement drying my feet to the ground for eternity, itâs all real.Â
I arrived home for spring break with three pairs of black leggings, a pair of jeans, and five shirts of varying sleeve length. My informal attire reflected my only plans for the week: playing with my dog and helping my pregnant mother. But when my plans changed that Monday morning, my wardrobe unfortunately did not. I was going to lunch with Kathy Troy and I had nothing to wear.
Trying to determine the formality of our lunch date was like trying to decide the formality of our relationship. She had been encouraging me to stop calling her Mrs. Troy since graduation, but I had spent far too much time in her classroom (first as a student, then as an intern and colleague) to suddenly start referring to her by first name. And so I ran between my momâs room, my room, and the mirror in the bathroom as I tried on every shirt in the house that fit me. This is too dressy, I canât wear that with leggings, why does my mom have so many shirts with ruffles? An hour later I finally decided on a tank top and a sweater after my reflection assured me I looked far more composed than I felt.
The night before, like most of the nights prior, I couldnât fall asleep and then that morning, I couldnât convince myself to get up. In a few swift brush strokes I covered the dark circles under my eyes and painted my lips to draw attention away from my eyes, which had a way of sharing more than I wanted.
On the drive over to the little yellow sandwich shop I relished in the ease of conversation. She somehow knew simple questions like âHow are you?â and âHowâs school?â made me anxious and usually resulted in temporary muteness. So instead we talked about my writing, my family, her family, her job.
Looking up at the menu caused sweat rings to begin to moisten the underarm area of my tank top, despite the little hairs standing up on my arms. I had not eaten anything before leaving, knowing full well that I would need to be really hungry in order to convince myself to eat. Nonetheless, nothing looked appetizing and the thought of force-feeding myself a sandwich made my stomach churn; although it wouldnât have been the first time.
Two weeks prior I found myself in the GSU for lunch, a biweekly occurrence since the semester started. After picking out a meal I had escaped the chaos of the first floor, migrating to my usual booth in the basement. But as soon as the food made contact with my tongue I realized I had absolutely no appetite, despite the fact that I hadnât eaten in twenty hours. At the time I diagnosed myself with the beginnings of a common cold and used it to rationalize my newly heightened obsession with naps as well.
After Mrs. Troy ordered a âRicky Ricardo,â I found the smallest thing on the menu and prayed it would have cherry tomatoes I could roll amongst the greens as an excuse to not make eye contact.
âYes, Iâm sure. Iâm a college student. My food schedule is all messed up,â I said, Â Â rationalizing my side salad. Thankfully she didnât question it any further and we climbed the steps to the abandoned second-floor eating area to wait for our orders.
We both knew why we were eating lunch together. The friends and family who asked what we were doing were told the truth: we were catching up. What they did not know was the complexity of the conversation about to take place. They didnât know that I had stopped our weekly email correspondence because social interaction was difficult even on the days that getting out of bed was easy. They didnât know I had all this built up anxiety over answering an everyday question.
But when we sat down and she finally asked, âHow have you been, Mickey?â it was not the usual superficial question adults ask one another with the expectation of a single, positively charged word. This question was the catcher telling the pitcher to throw a fastball: no tricks, no curves. And for the first time, I was able to respond truthfully to someone besides my therapist.
I took a deep breath through my nose and held it longer than intended, trying to put my last few months of school into something coherent. I had pulled back from social activities, spoke only when spoken to, and was barely getting my assignments done. Only when my symptoms manifested themselves physically did I decide it was time to see a therapist and drop the class that constantly made me feel like I was drowning.
But even in therapy I hadnât said the word yet, I had just admitted to the symptoms.
Depressed. I was depressed and that is what I wanted to scream every time someone asked how I was doing. But itâs so much easier to lie, to say âIâm good,â âIâm fine,â âIâm well,â and hope for no more follow up questions requiring more lies. But I wasnât going to lie to Mrs. Troy.
And while I prepared myself to say the words, she waited. And I suddenly recalled the day I arrived for internship before she returned from lunch. I snuck into the room and sat at a desk, nostalgically recalling what it had been like five years prior to sit in her seventh grade English class. When she arrived I was funneling my nostalgia into a poem.
âHey Mick--Oh. Iâll leave the writer to work.â
And she sat with me in silence until I had all the words--all the feelings--down on the paper. She waited then, she was doing it now, and I knew she would do it in the future. Knowing I had that support led me to my ultimate acceptance: telling the woman I looked up to most that I was broken, because that was how I saw myself.
âNot great,â I finally answered her question, releasing my breath and many of my anxieties.
Once I got the ball rolling I didnât--I couldnât stop. She sat and listened as I told her everything I had been feeling and not feeling all those months. I told her--and only her for the longest time--that I was suffering from depression and she understood like no one else has.
When she told me I wasnât broken, I wasnât a burden, I wasnât alone, I believed her. And when she told me she was proud of me I knew I was going to be okay because I had found a support system.
As she drove me home we were back to talking about T.V. shows and books and I realized nothing had changed. Depression had not changed who I was, how she saw me, nor our relationship. And on my darkest days, it is that seemingly uneventful drive home that keeps my head above water.
