Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation Mom, my depression is a shape shifter. One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, The next, itās the bear. On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone. I call the bad days: āthe Dark Days.ā Mom says, āTry lighting candles.ā When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame, Sparks of a memory younger than noon. I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die. Besides Mom, Iām not afraid of the dark. Perhaps, thatās part of the problem. Mom says, āI thought the problem was that you canāt get out of bed.ā I canāt. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head. Mom says, āWhere did anxiety come from?ā Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, IĀ amĀ the party. Only I am a party I donāt want to be at. Mom says, āWhy donāt you try going to actual parties, see your friends?ā Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I donāt want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. Itās just not that fun having fun when you donāt want to have fun, Mom. You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, āTry counting sheep.ā But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake; So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in. Mom says, āHappy is a decision.ā But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break. Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying. No. I am afraid of living. Mom, I am lonely. I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely ā The lonely into busy; So when I tell you, āIāve been super busy lately,ā I mean Iāve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed. But my depression always drags me back to my bed Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city, My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat, But I am a careless tourist here. I will never truly know everywhere I have been. Mom still doesnāt understand. Mom! Canāt you see that neither can I? ~Sabrina Benaim
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