In sadness

Sadness is a single cancer cell big enough to render my immune system stupid. My life has become too big to understand, my person too vague for significance, and my body too heavy to lift off that old couch.

I sit and mope and explain to myself that my sadness was delivered to me by life’s unkind nature. No one would hold that against me; after all, the only recipient of the harm produced is the producer him/herself.

This sounds like a fair bargain, but if my excuses were valid, humankind would still be hiding in caves and worshiping the stars.

I think again and determine sadness to be an emotion that can either be a temporary state or a perfect getaway. I linger on “perfect getaway,” realize my preexisting attachment to it, and conclude that I am stuck in an ongoing tragedy. I should repeat that: I’m stuck in an ongoing tragedy.

With the world at its ripest and the opportunities at the peak of their abundance, I pursue all roads and reach the destination called Nowhere. And when disappointments come crashing my way at the recognition of my lost cause, I sink into despondency and take forever to get back on my feet. The revelation of life’s rough character leaves me wondering where my childhood has gone, and I stand alone in a crowded place, unsure of how to approach this monster. Rather than risk upsetting the norm, I rent a house in Sadness Village and I shut all my doors and windows.

I become depressed.

Later, I sneak out to peek at the world and see what I have been ignoring: countless strangers of the same age, the same race, the same clothes, and the same smile of a person who is seemingly standing on the edge of his/her own pedestal. Hovering above our heads is the false notion that life would be and should be easy. Success is instant. First love is true love. One try is enough. Rejection is a signal to withdraw.  A broken family is an indication of a life stuffed with never-ending complications.

With all the talk about “letting go” and “taking chances” that I keep raging about in public, I continue to be crushed by the inevitable dawning of depression. I continue to be overcome by my wrongs and my inability to let go. I see them as a mistake instead of an invitation to wisdom, and I’m quite fed up with that. I can’t stomach the growing population of depressed adolescents who refuse to fight for their lives simply because they feel no one else will fight for them. However accurate this notion might be to the majority of us, I refuse to claim it as my excuse. I am sick of participating in that frenzy.

The issue of teenage depression is underestimated. We know it exists, but most of us fool ourselves into believing that it is only a phase and that “getting over it” is an inevitability.

I wonder why this lie pushes through to this day despite the increasing number of us who do not make it out alive. When the concept of suicide took its full form in my understanding, it came as a shock to me that giving up on life is a possibility. It is a prospect that matures and comes alive the second you enter into depression yourself, and from that height you can finally see from what depth your fallen peers had perceived the world.

The truth is that all of us eventually consider ending our lives, some with the fantasy of seeing their funeral from heaven and trying to identify the people who will grieve the most at the loss of them. There is another side to this: an alley discovered only by those who wish to close their eyes forever, thinking of no one else but themselves because they are convinced they have grieved the worst.

I hope that fathers will not always dismiss their daughters’ moodiness as a side-effect of being a woman; I hope that mothers will start to notice how their sons win over the urge to cry in public; I hope parents will take the time to look at their children and see, and if they don’t, I hope that their brothers and sisters will; I hope that teachers will ask a question and notice the students who do not raise their hands; I hope that friends will shut up, stop judging, and hear what the loud ones cannot say out loud; most importantly, I hope that those who need help will realize that they have the strength to help themselves.

I’m sick of blaming others. I’m sick of pointing at the world, when the world is only a reflection of who we are today. If I want change, I have to give others something to reflect.

They say depression cannot be overcome by willpower alone, but that does not cancel the impact that willpower can produce in any battle, especially ones that commence in the minds of us young people.

Depression is not an event or a phase, but a cycle, and getting over it once will never be enough, particularly for those who are continuously suffering from unwanted transitions in their life. The breakthrough has to be won frequently until we reach stable ground, until we have stored enough courage to call ourselves Brave. Every day, we will exhale the traumas of our past and inhale the possibilities that the present has made available to us.

I will not waste my time agreeing with the negative poundings of society.

I will create a limit and ring an alarm, and I will draw an imaginary switch in the murk of my thoughts and flick it upward. I will see the happy moments, regardless of how few and how temporary. I will purposely choose to move on and be happy. Life doesn’t end because I’m sad. Life doesn’t begin because I’m happy. Life goes on because I dare to live it.

“Anais Jay,” 18, says she has decided to stop schooling for an entire year “to pursue my painting and writing career.”