Mimi Yems on the difficult process of recovering from depression
A great sadness of recovering from depression is realising that you will never throw yourself off that ledge. Yellowing face, exhausted from long nights of nothing pressed tightly against the glass, eyes fallen to the ground below. Then your eyes move upward, taking in brilliant orange leaves falling and you simply cannot join them. I am better now, you think, I no longer have an out.
Endless days spent lolling in-between daydream and vast blank reality now fade to a blur, something that can be seen through, but no colour is detected. The interesting, captivating wonder of the world is replaced by an unmoving spectrum of emotion and a distinct lack of passion. A bedroom littered with strewn clothing and used tissues once murmured with an interesting voice but has now fallen silent. It is a lonely feeling, one similar perhaps to watching slowly as each person you love grows wearier and older, or killing off something malignant but kind. Mental turmoil, though excruciating, can also be captivating: a fascinating inner world is built from nothing but empty space and bit by bit through self-care each turret, each stone wall disappears.
Healing from pain can and often is one of the most difficult things that a person can do. The process is never-ending: each day must begin with a smile otherwise you roll over into the warm embrace of melancholy. Every day you make the choice to rise or fall. Every day you choose to rise despite how desperately you need to fall. You trundle onward. Cold grey winter makes for a beautiful pathetic fallacy as you navigate life closer to everyone else than you were before. Your breath is on their necks. Footsteps sync on the pathways, hammering a slow drum. The march to normality, the procession of averageness. Moping and misery are inspired, mundanity inspires nothing.
But because we are fine, because we feel nothing instead of horrific, blunt sadness, we must be grateful. To medicine, to God, to those who pulled us close when we smelled like death. We plead at the heels of those who have dragged us, naked, into a world we haven’t known for years. Thank you for pulling me back; but what happens now? It is often said of grief that there is a shock when one realises that life goes on. A great loss is followed only by the everyday. In the bigger picture, nothing changes, and it is heartbreaking. You find yourself in vast white rooms and only now begin to see the sunlight creeping through the chiffon curtains.
The aftermath, picking up pieces of glass and putting them slowly on the shelf out of the way. Stripping bed linens and replacing them with fresh ones. On the grey scale of vision, your gaze turns toward the white. It is still uncomfortable, but nothing compared to the suffocating warmth of summer. In the living room, held up by comfort and love, you are finally able to hold your family back.
Outside isn’t a wasteland and the magic that is missed during the dullness of recovery can be found if searched for very carefully. A damp smell of mud, the pinched numbing pinkness of the solstice’s kiss. You return to the place that knew you best, felt you cry in its folded arms, watched you wither over so many years.
Swept by the wind, sea salt licks each broken off cliff-piece. Winter marches bitterly over the horizon, the trailing grey line of the sky. A cove fresh and fruitful in the summer now hangs deadened like a skinned animal. Moss edges playfully closer to the bare bones of the trees, the rain leaves silver glinting in its wake. You lie on an old checked blanket and listen as the waves cry and bellow. The sky’s brow darkens and the horizon fades to black.
