Six Months Later
MOM
Are you sure you’re ready?
ME
It’s one date. I’ll be fine
MOM
It just seems too soon. I’m worried about you
ME
Mom, it’s been six months. I promise I’m good
ICAN’T REALLY BLAMEher for worrying about me, I suppose. It may have been six months since my girlfriend screwed me over, but it’s only been three months since I haven’t felt depressed. Finding out the girl I was dating wasalsodating a girl I’d hooked up with in the past really fucked me up. Like kick-started a full-on depression. The second bout in a year.Before that, I hadn’t experienced an episode in a solid decade. I hadn’t felt that awful since I visited my father for the last time.
Agitated, I yank my shirt off, cursing the tag that’s irritating my neck. My sensory issues have really ramped up these last few months. Though my depression is under control, I’ve yet to rein in these sensations. Reactively, I rip the tag off, and when I put a hole in the seam, I let out a string of curses. I toss it onto the floor and throw on another.
I have an hour until I meet… uh, what’s her name again? Ronnie? Robyn? I open the dating app on my phone. Robyn, but goes by Ronnie. Got it.
In front of the mirror, I take a moment to breathe deeply, evenly. These days, I once again recognize the face staring back at me. After finding out the truth about Sam, I flew out of the Black Hole and stumbled back to my apartment where I took kitchen shears to my hair. It was a terrible mistake. I looked like the before picture of a dog in an animal shelter. I thought that if I shaved my beard, I’d look better; instead, I could have been mistaken for one of those starved animals in a Sarah McLachlan commercial.
That night, I felt unclean. I’d been used and was hit with a visceral urge to shed myself. In that state of mind, chopping off my hair seemed like the only way to make that happen.
In reality, what I needed was a dosage change and a therapy session ASAP. At the time, though, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Instead, I called in sick that Monday. Then again on Tuesday. When I called on Wednesday, my boss urged me to take the rest of the week off.
By Thursday, Cam, who’d been unable to break through the haze I’d gotten lost in, had called my mother.
Even then, no amount of matzo ball soup could flush the sad feelings out of me.
My dad was the first person to show me I wasn’t worthy.While my mom couldn’t live with—or even near—the man, she never kept me from having a relationship with him. It pained her to watch me fight for his approval, but she never tried to tell me how to feel, and I was grateful for that. She was always there when he let me down, and she never judged me.
Lennon—the woman who told me she was separated from her husband—was the next person to show me how unimportant I was.
And the third was Samantha. Or Sam. Or whoever the fuck she is.
This time around, my mom let me wallow for a few days, then dragged my ass to therapy. It wasn’t my first rodeo, so I knew I’d have to talk if I wanted to improve.
“Why am I not good enough?” Tears roll down my stubbled cheeks as I plead with my therapist. “Why, when I’m screwed over by someone, does my brain say ‘maybe we should be depressed’? I’m so sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I wish I had more control.”
Monty didn’t “cure” me that day like I begged him to, but therapy twice a week for a month kept me accountable for making good choices in my life.
“When you do good, you feel good. Continue doing the things you would normally do when you aren’t depressed, and I promise your brain will catch up.”
My mom added to that sentiment later by reminding me that I’d overcome my depression before, so there was no reason I couldn’t do it again.
Taking care of myself was the last thing I wanted to do, but both Monty and my mom were right. I had to push through, even if my brain felt like it was in quicksand.
With Monty’s encouraging words written on a sticky note on my mirror as a reminder, I tap into the excitement I used to feel when getting ready for a first date and focus on the endless possibilities. Today could be the first day of the rest of my life. And if it’s not? It’ll make for a good story over drinks with friends. Either way, I’m feeling optimistic.
I still have a good half hour before I meet Ronnie, so I park myself on the sofa next to Cam. Though he moved out months ago, he’s hanging out here while Joey visits with her cousin.
Millie. My chest tightens painfully at the thought of her. We haven’t spoken sincethat night. Too stunned to think, I ran out on her at the Black Hole and didn’t look back. I absolutely need to apologize but haven’t had the opportunity. Shortly after the incident, she left to tour with the musical she was performing in. Then I was too depressed. Now I’m embarrassed about how much time I’ve let pass by.
“You ready?” Cam asks, setting his laptop on the coffee table in front of us.
