“I have been depressed my whole life.”

“I have been depressed my whole life.” 

 

That was the first thing I thought when you said you wanted us to introduce ourselves but cut the boring stuff. “I have been depressed my whole life.” Or, at least, that was what I thought. 

 

To better understand a writer — not that I’m pretentious enough to call myself one — one should know about their life. That’s the only way any piece of writing ever makes sense. That’s the only way to understand someone. You have to trace the cracks. Watch where the light bends strange. Look left when they’re insisting you look right. You should know what makes them separate. What makes them desperate. The code they’re speaking — especially when the words feel disparate.

 

So, I should give you my code. I like rattling off my sorrows, one after another, fast. Makes them feel smaller. Pretend they are smaller. Top it off with a big smile. 

 

I don’t have a favourite colour. Or favourite song. Or movie. Or book. I mostly pick favourites from my struggles. I dress them up. I take them by the arm. We walk in, in all kinds of places, together. Never felt alone, myself. Not once. That was the first hit I took. My mom convincing my dad that I would be alone if something happened to them. Me. A two-year-old who walked right back home as soon as other children arrived in the park. I always knew what I wanted. A brother? Not in my Christmas list. Spending all my childhood in hospitals? Wouldn’t be my first choice. Having my father ripped away. Always checking behind the door to see if he’s hiding there. Reading it in a newspaper I throw away. One, two, three. Bingo. Right? Let go. No? Shit. Here we go.

 

There was a party trick I learned when I spent a year abroad. You have to start a fire, open up a conversation, impress people. “Say something strange about yourself, something different.” What I usually mention, is that I speak a bit of Norwegian. I sometimes do it to actual people — not the NPCs you got to fill the time, or the class credit, with. Actual people you actually want to see again. So, hiding it, would feel like lying. So, I say it. Quick. With a grin. The goal is to puzzle them into silence, leave them unsure how to continue. Tell and run away. Hope they forget. Hope they don’t mention it again. Hope they do. Hope they ask all kinds of questions. Hope they don’t press on the wound. Hope they blow on it.

 

My professor in law school killed my best friend. I was raped. I have an injury that hasn’t healed for 5 years so I’m pretty sure I should start calling myself disabled at some point. I’m probably autistic. I have pain. Every day. I have chronic physical pain. That is the biggest truth to me. It’s all I think about. It’s all I am. I used to be someone. I used to be smart. I used to be funny. Pretty. I was the sort of girl guys fell for. Instantly. That’s how my best friend introduced me to a guy once. I could open my water bottle on my own then. I don’t think he would look me the same. I don’t think anybody does. 

 

These are the things I think about when I think about my life. I have more. Oh, many, many more. I have the utter serenity of a bird when faced with the slightest wind. I have the madness of a great coward. I don’t like being told what to do. I especially don’t like being told what I can and cannot do. What I really like is doing exactly the opposite. I love proving people wrong. I love being the kind of mystery that makes you question if you are an idiot because how can you not get what is going on when every single page of that book is wide open for the world to read. But those are the things I don’t tell. Not yet. I have to remember them. You’ll have to wait.